


Dear Fen'Harel

by blarfkey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: College AU, Dear Daddy Long Legs AU, Hijinks, Lots of epic friendships, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2018-11-19 18:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 112,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey
Summary: It sounds way too good to be true.A fellow library patron-- and total stranger -- just happens to notice her pathetic attempts of self-education in between the three jobs it takes to afford rent in Orlais? And then just so happens to be both kind and disgustingly rich enough to offer to pay for her entire ride to any university she wants? And the only thing he wants in return is total anonymity and a pen-pal?It sounds like something straight out of a hidden camera show. What kind of desperate idiot would fall for a scam like that?Ellana. Ellana Lavellan is that desperate idiot.A solavellan Dear Daddy Long Legs AU





	1. Freshman Year 1 Semester Part 1

 

“Are you Ellana Lavellan?”

Ellana looks up from _The Rise and Fall of Arlathan_ (the book she’s checked out at least ten times in the last year), a bit startled at the intrusion. The only people who approach her at the Orlais National Library are the librarians, usually to kick her out at closing time.

And when she sees the man behind the intrusion, the bottom of her stomach drops out.

He towers over her, with a face that looks too young for the shock of slicked back white hair and the suit too pressed and formal and _expensive_ to be accompanied with the twining branches of Mythal’s vallaslin on his forehead. He is the weirdest non-Dalish-looking Dalish she’s ever seen. And even worse, he looks pissed off and he knows her by name.

Instinctively she starts rifling through the last couple of weeks for any customers she might have pissed off. But she works three different jobs, and it’s hard to keep track of all the people she encounters on a day-to-day basis. Besides, another Dalish elf would have stuck out vividly in her memory – he’s the first one she has seen in two years – and Ellana has no memory of him.

Is he some kind of lawyer? Is she about to get sued?

“I’m sorry,” she says, mustering the polite smile she gives her customers. “I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Highly doubtful. You fit the description, and you’re also the only Dalish elf here.”

“Besides you,” Ellana says.

The blank exterior cracks for a second and he looks uncomfortable. It mirrors the way Ellana often feels, when countless strangers point out the most obvious way she is separate from them. The way she sticks out. It’s enough to inspire some kind of irrational and instant kinship with the elf.

“I’m Ellana,” she says. “I’m also super broke so whoever sent you to sue me isn’t going to get very much.”

He doesn’t crack so much as the hint of a smile at the joke. Instead he takes a seat across from her and pulls out a briefcase. Ellana swallows. He really is a lawyer, the expensive kind that Ellana and whatever free lawyer Orlais provides would not hope to match in a court case.

“I’m not here to sue you,” he tells her, opening the briefcase with a crisp snap. “I’m here to offer you an education.”

He doesn’t wait for the reply that Ellana is too flabbergasted to give. Instead, he pulls out a pristine, stapled document and places it between them.

“A contract. If you sign, my client offers to pay for your undergraduate degree at any university of your choosing. He is also willing to pay for graduate school, if you wish to continue your education.”

Immediately her hackles rise. This is too random. Too strange. Too close to the dream she keeps close to her chest, even as it withers with each passing year.

“This is some kind of joke,” she says coldly, folding her arms. “Who put you up to this? Alistair? I don’t think he’d be this cruel, but he is a bit of an idiot and I am going to kick his _fucking_ ass.”

It had to be Alistair. Her roommate’s the only one who knows of her dreams for college, even though she couldn’t pay for it in a million years. Maybe he thought the joke so obvious that she wouldn’t consider it for a second. Maybe he didn’t realize how very badly she wanted a degree. Whatever impulse behind this prank, it stings. And she’s going to stain all his clothes pink when she gets home.

“This is not a joke,” the man says gravely.

“Then where the _hell_ is this coming from?” she demands, her voice raising. Someone on the other side of the room looks up from their book and she almost flushes.

The man studies her for a moment. “Forgive me. Perhaps I have started in the middle and not the beginning. My client is a frequent visitor of this library. He has noticed you several times and has decided that you would benefit from an education and that you are unlikely to procure one on your own. Therefore, he has decided to fund it himself.”

“So . . . he’s a stalker?”

The look this man levels at her is even colder than his default setting. “Is it stalking if you two are occupying the same space at the same time purely through coincidence?”

“It’s weird that he’s been watching me all those times,” she says. “Especially since he apparently sent you instead of coming himself.”

“He wishes to remain anonymous. You do not have to accept his offer.”

“How do I know this isn’t a scam?”

The man pushes the contract over to her side of the table. “Read the contract. You are not obligated to give or pay for anything. You will receive confirmation that the debt to your university is paid before you need to set foot on campus. All that is required of you is to apply to the university of your choosing and to write monthly emails updating him as to your progress.”

Ellana takes the document in hand, even though such an act signifies her willingness to believe in this farce. She looks for any clues that this is all fake; inconsistencies, grammar errors, unprofessional language.

But the document is pristine. It states that she has full control over what classes she wants, what college she goes to, how long she stays in school. It even includes a stipend for spending money on top of tuition, books, room and board.

Even if this is a scam, the only risk Ellana takes is in having to crawl back to her three jobs if she gets kicked out of the university for not paying tuition.

That and the feeling of having her dreams crushed right when she thought she could achieve them.

“ _Why_ ,” she asks quietly. “You’re trying to tell me that in exchange for thousands of sovereigns all he wants is a pen-pal? What does he get out of this?”

“He has seen a thirst for knowledge, and he wants to encourage it. He believes in your potential. Do you accept or not?”

“I -- ” Ellana falters, the hopeful and skeptical sides of her clashing.

The expression on his face is almost soft.

“Take the contract,” he says.  “I will meet you here, at this table, at this hour, in three days’ time for your answer.”

He stands up, buttons his suit coat, and pauses. “I almost forgot. Whether or not you accept, my client wishes for you to have this.”

He pulls out a book from the briefcase. It’s a copy of the same book that Ellana was reading, only this one isn’t public property and its blank pages are begging for all the notes and highlights and quotes that she has scribbled in a beat-up composition book.

Ellana stares at it for so long, she doesn’t notice when the lawyer packs up his briefcase and leaves.

 

When the library closes, Ellana heads over to Calenhad, the bar where Alistair works. She spots him flipping bottles in the air and catching them _very_ precariously behind his back. After shattering a hundred-sovereign bottle of vodka and ruining the manager’s shoes, Alistair was banned from such tricks, and only the threat of disappointing the many fans of his charmingly awkward flirty banter kept him from getting outright fired.

Ellana glances around the dark room to make sure that said manager isn’t here to witness Alistair’s rebellion before heading up to the bar.

“That’s some expensive floor cleaner,” she says, nodding at the tequila bottle in his hand, the price of which could pay for their electricity bill.

“I’ve been practicing, thank you very much,” Alistair says. “I haven’t dropped a bottle all day.”

“You just jinxed yourself.”

Alistair raps his knuckles on the wooden bar. “Not anymore.”

“That’s not how that works.”

Alistair ignores her in favor of gracing an older woman with a bright blue martini and his trademark grin, the one where his eyes crinkle at the corners. It works disgustingly well, made all the more effective by the fact that Alistair can only flirt decently when he’s not flirting on purpose, making him adorably, obliviously genuine.

“So. What’s up, Buttercup?” he asks, sliding over a glass of lemon soda.

“You would not believe what just fucking happened at the library.”

Immediately, his relaxed and friendly demeanor drops. “Did someone harass you?”

Back when Ellana was painfully naïve and new to the city, humans used to harass her quite a bit, because the only thing worse than being a flat-ear was being a savage, Dalish flat-ear.

“No, no. I’m fine,” Ellana says. “Though this might end up being harassment, come to think of it.”

She explains the weird Dalish elf and the deal he offered as Alistair made various drinks.

“Are you sure one of the librarians didn’t give you a pot brownie and you hallucinated? Because this sounds utterly unbelievable.”

“It does. I don’t believe it. It’s probably a giant scam that he’s pulled on countless other unsuspecting poor people.”

Alistair gives her a knowing look. “But you want to believe it.”

Ellana sighs and chugs her soda. “Yeah. I do.”

“Are you going to take it?”

“I have no idea.”

 

By the end of the three days, as Ellana is walking towards the table in the library, she still hasn’t decided on an answer.

The yearning to sign it, to go to college, burns.  Only her fear and skepticism keeps it at bay with hundreds of unanswered questions. What if it’s all a cruel joke and the lawyer never shows up? What if she gets to university and they won’t let her in because her tuition was never paid? Even worse, what if she lives out her first semester and then the university kicks her out with that debt hanging over her head? She would never be able to pay it off. It took three jobs just to afford to live in a closet-sized apartment in Orlais in a barely decent neighborhood. And that’s with a roommate!

She almost hopes that the lawyer never shows, if only to absolve her from making the choice. But no, he stands patiently at the same table, hands crossed behind his back. The contract already sits at the table, a fountain pen resting beside it.

“Good evening, Serah Lavellan,” he says, inclining his head.

“Good evening . . . .” she trails off at the lack of a name.

“Ser Abelas will do.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Your name is ‘Sorrow’?” Creators, what kind of a child was he?

He gives her a frosty stare. “Will you sign or not?”

Ellana takes a deep breath. 

Fuck it. What’s worse than all of this turning out to be fake is the regret that would haunt her if she didn’t try. It’s not like she’s got any other options.

“I’ll sign.”

 

Sitting on her bed with her phone in hand, Ellana painstakingly types out her first email. Her benefactor/stalker/whoever-the-fuck wants to be known only as Fen’Harel and Ellana isn’t quite sure how to take that, to be honest.

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: ghestlin_lavellan@tmail.com_

_Subject: Hello_

_Dear Fen’Harel_

_I honestly do not know what to say here. I’ve never had a pen-pal or written very many letters outside of thank you notes that my foster mom forced me to write. So if this comes out as stilted and awkward, at least you know I got it honest._

_Abelas says that you will never write back, so I guess it doesn’t much matter what I write, huh?_

_Is this your way of getting to know me? There’s probably not much you gleaned from watching me in the library, except for the fact that I read the same book like fifty times and scribble notes about it like a crazy person._

_I must have looked seriously pathetic for you to take so much pity upon me that you’re willing to spend thousands of dollars on me._

_That is, if this isn’t some giant scam. I’m still not convinced it isn’t and you aren’t just some weird stalker who gets kicks out of screwing over poor Dalish elves. You wouldn’t be the first. And also your pen name is really weird._

_I don’t know if you’re Dalish or not (it’s_ highly _unlikely that any Dalish has enough money to pay for strangers’ educations on a whim and we wouldn’t know about them) but Fen’Harel is kind of a touchy subject in our culture._

_He’s the renegade cousin of the last great elven king that staged the rebellion that got the entire royal family murdered, which is why Arlathan fell and the elves got their asses kicked by Tevinter and the Chantry._

_There’s more to it than that, of course, but I’m not about to get into all the theories about Fen’Harel’s rebellion. You should read the book you bought me if you’re interested. Just know that Fen’Harel has kind of gone down into Dalish legend as a boogey man who’s always out to screw us over and make it look like he’s “helping”. So, if you wanted a clever name for a cruel trick like, say, making a Dalish girl think she’s getting her dream education before sending the university a bunch of bounced checks, Fen’Harel would be pretty damn clever._

_Well, if you want details on Ellana Lavellan, you’re going to wait until I’m sitting cushy in my dorm room with all my expenses paid in advance. Then at least I would get to taste one semester of academia before it all crashes and burns._

_Oh, and thanks for the book. Now I can start the process of transferring my notes in my notebook to the margins of the book. And color coordinate them with sticky flags. Because I’m a nerd like that. (There. That’s one detail about me as a thank you present. You’re welcome.)_

_~ Ellana_

“So, are you going to call her?” Alistair asks as he tries to adjust the rabbit ears antenna on the television to get a better signal.

“Call who?”

“Your mother! Or whatever approximation of your mother that she is.”

Guilt squirms in her chest and she tries her best to squelch it down. “Not yet. But I will.”

“Hmm. Sure,” he says with deep skepticism. “Is the picture good now?”

“It’s still a little fuzzy, but I can make out most of it.”

The second Alistair steps away, the nightly news dissolves into white noise.

“Ugh, forget it,” Ellana says, tossing the remote onto the empty milk crates that serve as a coffee table. “I’ll just grab someone’s tossed paper at work tomorrow.”

“Well now you have more time to call your mum,” Alistair says brightly. “It’s been, what, two months?”

“Alistair,” Ellana groans. “She’s just going to tell me that I’m an _idiot_ for even thinking about accepting the offer and that I should come back home.”

“Come now, that’s not very fair. She’s never said that you needed to go back.”

“She’s implied it.”

“I think that’s your guilt speaking, to be frank.”

Ellana really hates it when he’s right. Even though as Keeper, Istie should be very concerned that Ellana ditched the Dalish to go live in the world of humans, she was the only one who encouraged Ellana.

But there’s a big difference between going to live with humans and putting your entire future and thousands of sovereigns in the hands of a stranger.

“If all else, Ellana, just give me her number. That way, if you go mysteriously missing and no one hears from you, I can at least give her a heads up.”

“That’s low, Alistair.”

“Actually, what’s low is telling you how much it sucks to not have a mother or mother figure to call at all.”

She throws a pillow at his face.

“I hate you.”

But she gets off the couch and heads into her room and makes the godsdamn phone call.

“Hello? Ellana?”

As always, the first _hello_ from Istie sends a bolt of homesickness through Ellana. It’s one of the reasons why she doesn’t call very often. She swallows the lump in her throat.

“ _Aneth ara,_ Istie,” Ellana says.

“ _Aneth ara_. _Thu ea?_ ”

“I’m doing fine,” Ellana answers. “And you? How is the clan? How are the rose bushes doing?”

“Everyone is doing well. My roses are getting a bit out of control. Danyla keeps offering to trim them for me, but my bald patches are still recovering from the last time, so I keep declining her.”

And as always, any mention of other clan members doing Ellana’s old chores feels like a zap with a taser. “You should get Mihris. He should know better; he did grow up in the orchard.”

“Hmm, perhaps. I am picky about who touches my roses, you know.”

Ellana smiles. As Keeper, Istie doesn’t allow herself many personal hobbies outside her duties of tending to the clan, but her rose bushes have won awards all throughout the Dales, and she once chased a teenager from another clan off with a stick for taking one. She trained Ellana from a young age on how to tend them, and because so, Ellana was the only other elf allowed to touch them.

“I do know. Listen, I need your help with something.”

“ _Da’len_ , you know I can’t post bail for you again,” Istie warns, but there is a wry edge to her statement.

“That was one time! And making it illegal to feed the pigeons is a stupid law.”

“And that’s the attitude that got you in a cell,” Istie says, with a chuckle. “What is your question?”

Ellana tries her best to describe the situation as both hypothetical and totally not sketchy at all, but Istie sees right through her.

“You’re putting in a lot of trust in a complete stranger that won’t even show you his face,” Istie points out. “I thought you were going to pay for college yourself. That you’ve been saving up for it.”

After two years of hard work, Ellana’s got a grand total of eight sovereigns in her savings account.

“There’s no way I’d be able to save enough.”

“And the scholarships you applied for?”

“A lot of them became void after I graduated high school,” Ellana says, biting her lip.

“So the past two years in Orlais have been ultimately futile,” Istie says in that matter-of-fact tone that Ellana hates so much because it usually means she fucked up in a way she can’t argue herself out of.

“I don’t regret moving here,” she says, defiance leaking into her tone despite her best efforts.

“I’m not saying that, _da’len_ ,” Istie says gently. “I am concerned, however, that you moved away because you thought the humans could give you a better education, and after two years of hard work, the only hope you have for this dream is a stranger’s unexpected and potentially untrustworthy charity. I know you, Ellana. You don’t take kindly to debt or pity or a lack of control in your own life. And this offer you describe has all three of those.”

 _Godsdamn it, Alistair. This is why I didn’t want to call her_. In five minutes, Istie completely annihilated all of Ellana’s confidence in this decision. This is a woman who takes days to consider all angles of buying a different brand of toothpaste and it drives Ellana crazy.

And the fact that Istie is always, _always_ right just takes the fucking cake.

“I know it does,” Ellana says. “I don’t like that part, but this is the best shot I have at a degree.”

“You mean it’s the easiest.”

“ _Maela_ ,” Ellana groans.

“I don’t know why you’re asking for my opinion when you’ve already taken the deal, _da’len_.”

“I have not!”

The silence on the phone is the sonic equivalent of Istie’s Don’t-You-Dare-Fucking-Lie-To-Me look.

“Okay, I have. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to argue, I just wanted to . . . hear you say that I’m not being a complete and total idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot, Ellana. It could be genuine,” Istie says slowly. “Such kindness is extraordinarily rare, but if you say his lawyer is Dalish then perhaps he is as well. Perhaps he is looking out for one of his own. Just . . . make sure you call me regularly so I know you’re alright.”

Ellana smiles into the phone. “I promise.”

“Now that you have the means, have you given any thought to what university you will try for?”

 

There is no debate or question about what college Ellana chooses. She emails Abelas the same night she signs the contract and pulls up the website for Skyhold University after she calls Istie.

Ellana has dreamed about Skyhold since before she graduated high school. She’s combed through that course catalog enough to practically memorize it. It’s the jewel of Orlesian higher education. It’s well rounded; it has some of the best programs in Thedas in all manner of fields, from medicine to history to criminal justice to education.

Not to mention that Dr. Solas Felassan, the author of _The Rise and Fall of Arlathan_ , teaches there when he’s not doing field work.

Ellana could do anything she wanted with a degree from Skyhold. But the money it would take for even an associate’s degree could pay off the mortgages of everyone in her clan, so she locked that dream away, even if she couldn’t let go of it entirely.

Money isn’t an issue anymore.

Now she just has to get in.

 

For a month Ellana uses all her free time in the library or at her bed, studying for the entrance exam. She graduated top of her class in high school, but Ellana finds out real quick that a Dalish education doesn’t match up with what the rest of the world got.

For a month, horrible dreams haunt her at night, dreams where the exam is written in nonsense, or in dwarven, or she’s taking the test on experimental physics instead of the entrance exam.

She takes a rare day off work for the test. And despite all the anxiety dreams, the pencil gnawing, book throwing (calling up Alistair because she can’t figure out this one math problem and he went to prep school _what do you mean you don’t know math you grew up rich!)_ she walks out of the library feeling fairly confident.

When she gets in the ninety fifth percentile, Alistair takes her out for dinner, and lies to the waitress about it being her birthday so they get free cake.

“You’re moving up in the world,” he says, toasting their beers together at her apartment afterward. “You’re going to leave me all alone to fend off all those vicious grandmothers on Senior Discount Day.”

Even though he’s clearly joking, Ellana’s gut squirms with guilt. Joking or not, the truth is that Ellana’s definitely ditching him to live out her dream in Skyhold and he’s stuck with his shitty apartment and two jobs and the impending need for a new roommate. And the only reason why she gets to be educated and he has to rot here is luck.

Pure dumb luck.

“Oh no,” says Alistair, looking at her warily. “You’ve got a bad look on your face. Usually when you have a bad look on your face, somebody gets punched. And right now I’m the only somebody around.”

Ellana rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to punch you. It’s just . . . I came to Orlais with nothing and no one and you – you’ve been an awesome friend to me. You’re always there when I need you. You always make me laugh. I’m going to miss you.”

There’s an embarrassing tightness in her throat, and Ellana shuts up before someone equally horrifying can happen, like actual tears.

“Oh, sweet Maker, this is even worse than getting punched in the face,” Alistair moans, thunking his head on the back of the couch. “I’m not drunk enough for feelings-talk. Ugh.”

“Fuck you,” says Ellana, but she’s smiling. “It just sucks that you’re stuck here while I get the chance to better myself. You deserve more than this.” She waves her beer at the large crack that runs down the wall by the T.V.

For a moment Alistair stares at the crack and then resolutely sets down his beer on the scuffed-up coffee table and turns to her, suddenly deadly serious.

“Ellana. Don’t you dare, for a millisecond, worry about me. I left behind a life with more privilege than you could ever dream of having, and I did so _willingly_. And yes, my apartment sucks and working two jobs is exhausting and I still have no idea what the hell I’m going to do that makes it worth the tradeoff. But I swear to the Maker if you go off to Skyhold thinking anything less than that you are a brilliant, sparkling woman who deserves this chance to live up to her potential, I will personally come up there and kick your ass. Do you understand?”

Ellana nods, a suspicious prickling in the corners of her eyes. This is why all the women love him.

“I’m going to hug you now, because I’m tipsy and you’re my best friend, and you’re going to hug me back and not wave your arms around like a lunatic or that awkward patting bullshit. And then we can pretend this whole conversation never happened.”

Alistair gives her that crooked half smile of his, but he can’t hide the sorrow that lurks in its corner, and Ellana throws her arms around him just so he doesn’t see her own eyes watering.

Asshole.

 

She gets into Skyhold. She and Alistair go out for dessert at the fancy Orlesian ice cream shop whose “artisan” cones always pop up on celebrity social media with stupid hashtags. Even though they both make fun of the place and would rather go homeless than work there, they also secretly have been dying to try it.

Turns out the best part of elfroot ice cream is the face Alistair makes when he tries it and the accompanying spat on the pavement, followed by exclamations like “ _Maker’s balls! How are you eating that?!”_

She ends up giving away most of her furniture to Alistair and parks the rest on the curb where it all disappears before morning. Her cot and nightstand sits in Alistair’s closet, just in case.

Despite the photocopy of the tuition check, the email confirmation, the letter about her room assignment and details about her roommate, Ellan still has her doubts. Even so, she makes her way to Skyhold the first day they allow incoming freshman.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: So Far So Good_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_So I’m at Skyhold. And I have to say that it lives up to all my crazy expectations, of which there were many._

_My dorm is tiny, and the two beds, two desks, and two dressers fit with barely room to breathe. But I’m not a stranger to tiny living quarters so it doesn’t bother me. Especially since the room has a giant window that overlooks the quad in the middle of campus._

_And I’m at freaking Skyhold, at least for the semester, so there’s really nothing to complain about._

_I remain cautiously optimistic._

_I won’t apologize for doubting you, though. You have to admit this whole set up sounds crazy. My old roommate, Alistair, thought I had eaten a pot brownie from one of the librarians and hallucinated the whole thing. I don’t know how I’ll tell anyone else about this. Maybe I’ll make up something more normal sounding, like a scholarship just for Dalish elves, haha. No one would argue with that because of how fast they’d change_ that _subject._

_I recall promising you details about me once I’m sitting cushy in a dorm with all my expenses paid. I’m still not convinced that you aren’t some creepy stalker, albeit a creepy stalker with deep pockets, but I am indeed sitting cushy in a dorm (for now) so I guess I’ll uphold my end of the bargain._

_Okay, so my name is Ellana Lavellan (but you knew that already)_

_I am Dalish. I grew up in a tiny town called Wycombe._

_I’m 20 years old. I’ve lived in Orlais since I graduated high school two years ago._

_I’ve had all kinds of jobs over the last couple of years. When you met me, I was a barista for a hipster coffee shop, a waitress at a pizza place, and I sold clothes at a store in the mall where everything was 100% cotton (they thought me being Dalish would lend some air of credibility to the place, which is stupid because none of that crap was handmade)._

_I really like history. It’s my favorite thing to read about._

_So there you go. Ellana Lavellan, as promised._

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

There is a soft, almost hesitant knock at the door just after she hits send. Ellana looks up to see a young man standing in the doorway, duffel bag in hand.

“If you’re looking for Cremisius, she’s not here yet,” Ellana tells him. She hasn’t seen any hint of her mystery roommate yet, but freshmen still had a couple more days to trickle in.

“I’m, um – ” The young man coughs. “I’m Cremisius.”

Ellana stares at him. She takes in the wide, flat chest, the short hair shaved on one side, the lean muscles in his arms, the stark line of his jaw.

“You’re definitely a dude,” she says.

“And you’re . . . Dalish?” he asks, peering closer at her face, eyes tracing over the vallaslin. “Unless that’s some sort of trendy tattoo.”

“No, it’s legit.”

Ellana has grown used to people’s surprise once they realize what she is. Dalish elves have stayed isolated in varying degrees from the rest of Thedas for the last six hundred years. Even now, with the internet and global trade and trains and airplanes making travel so much easier, 99% of Dalish elves prefer to live with their clans and never set foot out of the safety of the Dales.

To humans, the Dalish are almost mythical. And people’s reaction to Ellana brewing their mocha latte is akin to encountering a unicorn in the forest.

“What are you doin—hmm.” Cremisius shuts himself up mid-sentence, for which Ellana is grateful. She has answered that question so _many_ fucking times.

“I guess the dorm people screwed up or something,” Ellana says to change the subject.

Cremisius goes red in the face, and his shoulders tense up.

“Not . . . exactly. I was assigned female at birth, so they won’t put me in the men’s dorms. I’m trying to repeal it, but they’re not listening.”

There’s something in the way he juts his chin out, as if bracing for an inevitable shit-storm over his identity but too proud to show any shame or embarrassment, that cuts Ellana. She knows that feeling from way too many arguments over zealous Andrastians that took her rejection of the Dales to mean rejection of her entire culture and religion.

“What a bunch of assholes,” she says.

Cremisius nods and swallows. “I’m sorry. I know this will probably be awkward for you, but I promise that I-- ”

Ellana holds a hand up. “Do you snore?”

“I – I don’t think so.”

“Are you going to blast music without headphones or stumble in drunk at two in the morning or bring random strangers over so you can bang them without telling me?”

“No, I’m not an asshole,” says Cremisius.

Ellana shrugs. “Then I don’t care. I’ve had male roommates before. It’s nothing new to me.”

“Seriously? This doesn’t bother you?”

He wants to believe her, but he’s skeptical that her acceptance is so forthcoming. Ellana felt the same way when Alistair, a devout Andrastian, wasn’t bothered by her Dalish religion. Instead, he set up a calendar in the living room to mark all their combined holidays.

“What bothers me is shitty roommate etiquette. Trust me, I’ve shared rooms with enough of my clan to write a freaking book about it. If you’re considerate, I don’t care about anything else.”

The beginnings of a smile tug at his lips. He sticks out his hand.

“Thank God for all those etiquette lessons my mother forced on me, then. You can call me Krem.”

“Ellana.”

They shake hands. It’s the start of a beautiful friendship.

 

Freshman Orientation is that afternoon. Krem and Ellana join the flock of anxious freshman that crowd the auditorium where they will hopefully graduate in four years. The Dean gives a forgettable welcoming speech that Ellana pays no attention to, and then they are sorted by major and last names and introduced to their advisors.

She waits in a line in the hallway as Dr. Pavus signs each of his freshman up for their first semester’s classes. In her hand she clutches the list of classes and their course codes, having already planned her first two semesters in the library the day she moved in.

(Unfortunately, Dr. Felassan isn’t on campus this semester, but Ellana has at least the next four years to take a class with him).

“Good afternoon, Ms. Lavellan.” he greets her, swiveling way from his computer to face her. “I’m Dr. Dorian Pavus. Have you decided on a major?”

His youth takes her by surprise, as well as his handsome face. He looks barely thirty, his black hair and thin mustache immaculate, his dark bronze skin warm and clear. Ellana fishes the list out of her pocket and hands it to him.

“Not exactly,” she says, “but I have charted out my first two semesters. Here’s what I’ve planned. I’ll get all my pre-requisites out of the way first semester.”

Dr. Pavus scans her list, his eyebrows climbing higher as he reads.

“I admire your ambition, but you can’t have twenty-one hours in your first semester, darling; you’ll have a heart attack before spring break. You’ll need to learn how to walk before you can run. What’s your major?”

He looks up expectantly at her.

“I . . . don’t have one yet,” she says, fighting a hot wave of embarrassment.  Humans assume the worst about her ignorance all the time; she doesn’t need to help their cause by looking like an idiotic freshman unprepared for college.

But Dr. Pavus just shrugs. “That’s alright, most freshmen aren’t sure of what they’re doing with their life. Most professors, too, really, though keep that hush hush. I don’t want you to blow our cover of being functional, capable adults.”

A smile twitches on her face.

“The best advice for undecided majors is to treat the first couple of semester like a buffet,” Dorian continues. “Try a little bit of everything that interests you. Balance it out with two or three of the core pre-requisites. That way you’re prepared for anything. What’s your favorite subject?”

“History.”

He turns to the computer and types for a minute in fluid key strokes. “There. I’ve signed you up for Composition 101, Intro to College Algebra, and Intro to Post-Andrastian History, That gives you your math, English, and History pre-reqs, which you’ll need for most every major.”

In spiky cursive, he jots down the time and room numbers for her on a sticky note, along with a seven-digit code.

“This is the code you need to sign up for classes. Add whatever entry level class you’re interested in, but I highly advise you don’t add more than two. I’ve seen plenty of freshmen drop out under the weight of their own course load, and it would be a shame to see someone with such potential burn herself out.”

“Thank you,” she says, taking the post-it note and tucking it in her pocket. “What do you teach?”

Dorian laughs. “I teach theoretical mathematics, and my classes routinely make grown men cry. Come find me in four or five years. I could use someone with your enthusiasm.”

 

The cost of textbooks almost gives Ellana a heart attack.

“Look at this,” she hisses to Krem, waving her thick, hardback algebra textbook at him. “This thing costs what I used to make in a _paycheck_. How the hell do these people get away with this?”

Krem’s face blanches at the sight of the 500-sovereign price tag. “This is for only _one_ book?”

As her stack of books grows, so does Ellana’s apprehension. Were books included in the contract? Would Fen’Harel think it funny to pay for everything except the textbooks she needed just to see how long she would last before she failed?

The tally rings up to well over a thousand sovereigns (just for her _first semester),_ and Ellana swallows hard as she gives her student account number to the cashier.

It takes one long, terrifying moment for the transaction to go through, and then the cashier hands over a receipt for her to sign.

Afterward Ellana and Krem pass the campus coffee-shop and look at the menu longingly.

“Should we even bother after this?” Krem asks. “We’re both broke.”

Ellana thinks about the debit card sitting in her wallet for “personal expenditures.”

“I think we need it,” she says. “This one’s on me.”

 

_To: fen-harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_It’s like, three in the morning but I just woke up from a nightmare and I can’t get back to sleep, and Alistair is probably still cleaning up the bar, so instead I’m huddled in the bathroom so that the light from my phone doesn’t wake up Krem._

_It’s a stupid dream. I wake up and go to class and suddenly I can’t read. Everything’s in gibberish. And I can’t write. Every time I try to take down notes, my pen just draws stupid doodles, or I spell the word wrong and erase it over and over again, while the professor just zips past all this important information and then I start freaking out that I’m missing everything and I can’t even write my name at the top of the paper!_

_Creators, just thinking about it is giving me a panic attack._

_It’s not like this dream will ever come true. I mean, Common was my first language and I started picking up Elvhen after my parents died._

_But after two years in Orlais, I know what people think of Dalish elves; that we’re all stupid, backwoods savages who stab any trespasser on sight and can’t read. And I can’t handle the thought of proving any of that right. Even though I didn’t come out of the Dales to serve as any kind of example, I still feel pressured to be perfect. I know that I will probably be the only Dalish elf any human here will ever see in their lives, and I feel this stupid urge to impress them so they think well of my people._

_Living up to that example in regular, everyday working life is one thing. But college is a whole different story. There are tons of humans just waiting for me to screw up so they can feel justified in thinking that I’m stupid and I don’t belong here. And I’m terrified that my scrapped-together education in the Dales has done nothing to prepare me for a college level course and I’m going to fail no matter what._

_I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this. It helps a little bit, getting it all out. But I think I’m trying to warn you. I know you have high hopes for me. I know that you expect me to do something great with the opportunity you’ve given me. And I’m going to give it everything that’s in me._

_Just . . . just don’t hate me if I’m not perfect. Just let me keep trying._

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

_P.S. The price of textbooks is total bullshit. The university store is ripping you off, just saying. You might want to have your sad lawyer look into that._

Ellana manages to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before her alarm goes off at 7:30. In the shower, she remembers the panic-stricken email she sent to Fen’Harel and cringes at how utterly whiny and pathetic she must have sounded. She hasn’t survived two years broke in Orlais by tolerating any kind of weakness.

But there’s nothing she can do about it, so she resolutely stuffs her embarrassment in the back of her mind and focuses instead on preparing for class. She has Intro to Algebra and Composition 101 today.

Algebra is first, at 9:30 in Aeducan Hall. The classroom is huge, styled like an amphitheater, with long tables instead of desks. Ellana sits in the first row by 9:15, pulling out paper for notes and organizing her pens and sharpening her pencils. She knows she must look so painfully eager, but math is her weakest subject and she doesn’t want to fail her first semester.

(The dream lingers in the back of her mind.)

“Oh, you are adorable,” says a familiar voice, matched with long footsteps.

Ellana looks up to see a tall, dark skinned man placing a very large iced coffee on the podium. Peacock green silk shirt and slacks, perfectly waxed mustache, white teeth bared against dark skin.

It’s her advisor from freshman orientation.

“Good morning, Dr. Pavus,” she says. She looks down at her schedule to double check if she’s in the right class. Sitting in on a theoretical math class would probably feel like last night’s dream in real life.  “Is this . . . Intro to College Algebra? Or am I in the wrong room? I think a Professor Kondrat is supposed to teach this?”

“Yes, yes,” says Dr. Pavus. “Oghren couldn’t make it. I’m filling in. Look at you, you’ve got three different highlighters! And Maker, how the hell are you so perky this early in the morning?”

“It’s early?”

Back home she would have woken before the sunrise to help feed the chickens, and the habit has never left her, even when she tried desperately to squeeze in a few hours of sleep between shifts.

Pavus turns around and tests markers on the board before writing his name with a beautiful flourish.

“Oh no, don’t tell me you’re a morning person. And here I thought we were going to get along.” But there is a smile in his tone even if she can’t see his face.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who wastes a perfectly good morning lazing around.” Ellana isn’t sure if she should be teasing her professor this early or even at all, but Pavus seems to be someone who likes a push and pull so she takes the risk.

“Lazing!” He spins around, mouth open, but his eyes shine. “It’s takes time to look this good, I’ll have you know. Lots of work and effort.”

Before she can open her mouth and something undoubtedly flirtatious and foolish ( _it doesn’t look like it takes you any effort at all)_ Krem walks into class with two coffees from the student union.

“You left _really_ early,” he says. “You didn’t think you’d get lost, did you? We only toured this campus about three times.”

“I wanted to get a good seat,” she lies, taking it and smelling the cinnamon and vanilla wafting from the lid. It’s scary how well Krem can read her, despite only knowing her for a few days.

“Don’t bother, she clearly doesn’t need it,” says Dr. Pavus. “She’s not like us lesser humans.”

Ellana grins. Krem slides into the seat beside her and pulls out his own notebook and freshly sharpened pencils because the both of them are studious nerds.

“Oh, that is precious,” sighs Dr. Pavus. “I haven’t taught freshmen in so long, I’ve quite forgotten how eager they are. I can’t decide if I dread or long for the moment you roll into class with a minute to spare still clad in your pajamas and taking notes on your hand with a borrowed pen.”

Soon the other students start filing in. They don’t get a moment for introduction, however, before Professor Pavus begins.

“Good morning, my eager freshmen! Heads off your desks, everyone. If I can’t sleep in, then neither can you. I’m Dr. Dorian Pavus. I teach experimental physics to graduate students, but Professor Kondrat had to check into rehab at the last minute and I pulled the short straw. If I go too fast for you children, just raise a hand and I’ll try to dumb myself down as much as possible. Clear off your desks, it’s pop quiz time! I need to see just how much your high school education failed you.”

Her insides seize up, but judging by the looks on everyone else’s faces, she’s not the only one.

 

“Good morning, my fresh-faced daisies!”

The composition professor was a dwarf with a nose that looked as if he had broken it more than once and thick copper hair in a pony tail that could rival the stoner in the back row. He sat on top of the desk, the only way he could be eye level with everyone else, and gave them all a sunny grin. Unlike Ellana’s giant amphitheater classroom in Math, Varric’s class too place in a small, tucked away room in the library, with room enough for only thirty desks and plenty of windows.

“I’m Varric. Professor Varric to anyone who’s still carrying the memory of their mother’s handprint if they spoke too rudely to an elder. But for the love the Maker, no one had better call me Professor Tethras unless you want me to deliberately fail you.”

Ellana’s lips twitched.

“Most of you probably don’t know how to piece a sentence together without screwing it up, but that’s okay. That’s what the grammar textbook I made you buy is for. I don’t teach grammar.”

“What _do_ you teach, then?” says one obnoxious student in the back.

“After class I might teach you how to dance with my crossbow,” Varric retorts. “But mostly I teach story telling. Everyone needs storytelling. Stories entertain, get you laid, get you out of speeding tickets, and in this class, will get you an A.”

He claps his hands. “All right. Since everyone here is a stranger to each other, you’re the perfect audience for stories. Find a partner and tell them three weird things about yourself. Then you pick your favorite and your partner must write it as a story. You’ve got thirty seconds to find someone. Go!”

Ellana whips her head around, hoping to the creators that she won’t get stuck with the smart ass in the back. The woman sitting next to her has the same panicked, lost expression.

“Partners?” she asks, in a heavy accent.

“Partners,” Ellana agrees.

The relief in the woman’s face is almost comical. Ellana scoots her desk closer to the woman and brings out a sheet of paper.

“I’m Ellana,” she says, holding out her hand.

“Cassandra.” The woman shakes her hand with a stone grip that could easily break fingers.

“So, three things,” Ellana muses. “Who would like to go first.”

“I would,” says Cassandra. “I . . . am not very social. I would like to get this over with.”

“Okay. Fire away.”

Cassandra takes a moment to think. Ellana uses this to give the woman a studying glance. She’s older than the freshman by a lot, perhaps in her mid-to-late thirties. A deep scar mars the left side of her cheek and her black hair is cut close to her head. She’s tall and muscular and dressed in modest jeans and a thin sweater.

She looks like she could play for the Chargers if she really wanted to.

Even so, there is a striking beauty to her that is hard to look away from.

“I was born in a car between two cities in Nevarra,” Cassandra starts. “I have seven middle names. I was married once when I was very young, but it didn’t last.”

Ellana copies this down dutifully on her sheet of paper, unsure if Varric is the type of teacher to pull surprise quizzes or not.

“Seven? That’s a lot.”

Cassandra’s mouth is a grim line. “Yes. One for each godmother. It’s quite exhausting. And you?”

Ellana thinks for a moment. Everything about her childhood is generally weird to humans, especially city humans whose only exposure to nature is the park down the street. So on one hand, this assignment is laughably easy. On the other hand, what she chooses to share depends on how many questions she feels like fielding afterward.

“When I was a kid, I helped out at the halla stable and I named all the Halla and talked to them like people because I thought one of them might be the elven goddess Ghilan’nain,” she starts and Cassandra’s eyes climb up at the mention of Ghilan’nain, so she dials back the religion aspect. “I almost set fire to someone’s barn making fireworks out of shotgun shells. And I got lost in a corn maze for almost three hours once and my neighbor had to find me by riding on his elk.”

 She almost spilled her secret about her scholarship, but decided not to at the last second. Being Dalish makes her enough of a freak as it was without adding her mysterious benefactor to it.

“You’ve had a very . . . lively childhood,” Cassandra says with a pointed brow. “I take it you’re not a city elf?”

“She’s Dalish,” comes Varric’s voice as he walks up the row of desks beside them. “That much is obvious from the vallaslin on her forehead.”

Maybe it’s two decades of unfair stereotypes, but Ellana is surprised that a dwarf knows anything about her culture, even if he lives on the surface.

Cassandra’s eyes go a little wide. “Oh! Forgive me, I had not realized. I’ve never . . . had the honor of meeting a Dalish before.”

“Not many people have,” says Varric, eyeing her. For a moment Ellana fears that he’s going to do that thing where non-Dalish treat her like an exotic spice, like she’s going to excite their lives just by existing.  It happened all the time in the clothing store she worked at. Customers would make a beeline to her for clothing advice, just for the experience of talking to her.

Instead, Varric leans up against Cassandra’s desk like he owns it, and she not-so-subtly draws her arm away from the elbow he’s propped up. “So, did you name those halla you talked to, and which one was your favorite?”

“ . . . Sarel. He was skittish. It took a long time to get him to trust me.”

“Is that why you have Ghilan’nain’s vallaslin on your forehead?”

Ellana stares at him, stunned. “That’s part of the reason. How do you know about Dalish vallaslin?”

“I’m a writer,” says Varric. “I make it my job to know lots of things about lots of different kinds of people.”

They spend the rest of class sketching out the written story of their fact. Ellana retells how they found Sarel caught in a bear trap and the ensuing months of carefully coaxing out his trust until he developed the annoying habit of breaking out of his stall just to show up in her backyard.

Cassandra lists all the godmothers who bear her namesake and how they have shaped her personality and history.

After class Varric escorts her down the hallway.

“So, you’re holding out on us,” he says rather casually.

Ellana looks down at him. “Excuse me?”

“With the stories. A Dalish elf at Skyhold University? There’s definitely a story there, and the fact that you wouldn’t share it earlier just means it’s more interesting to me.”

Ellana can’t help but smile. An insatiable curiosity compels him to ask, rather than the snobbish surprise that a Dalish could even get into college.

“There is, and it’s certainly weird,” she says. “But I’m not ready to share it just yet.”

Varric holds up a hand. “Say no more. Certain stories require a level of trust.  I’m willing to wait.”

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: I made it!_

_Dear Fen’Harel_

_My first week was excellent. I risk jinxing myself, but I’ll say that classes are easy. Except for Math, but that’s because Dr. Pavus hasn’t taught freshmen in years and he’ll spiral into advanced math before dumbing himself down once he sees our blank looks. But I’m not the only one who struggles, so it doesn’t bother me._

_Art History is fascinating, but Dr. Sten looks like he would kill you in your sleep if you ever showed up late. He’s the first Qunari I’ve ever met without horns and for some reason that just makes him even scarier. He’s_ very _passionate about preserving ancient art though. The first day in class he showed us a Pre-Chantry Tevine statue with missing arms and said, like someone commenting on the weather, “Someone once tore the arms off this goddess. It’s unfortunate that I will never have the opportunity to remove his arms in kind.”_

_And then he just changed the slide like nothing happened_

_Varric, my composition professor, is having us write a story about the most interesting fact about us as chosen by our partners._

_So here are three interesting things about me that I didn’t share with my partner:_

  1. _I’m a little allergic to halla but that didn’t stop me from working at my best friend’s halla farm. I just washed my hands a lot and sneezed constantly._
  2. _I was the only person in town to complete the library’s Summer Reading Challenge every year since I was twelve. But, granted, most Dalish don’t have the time or desire to read very much, and our library was smaller than our diner, so I didn’t have much competition._
  3. _I once snuck out of my house and walked for three hours just to see a movie at the drive in theater. It was held at one in the morning because it had a ton of violence and nudity and the elders banned it, but one of my classmates snuck it in._



_So there you have it. The mystery of Ellana unveils a little bit at a time._

_Yours,_

_Ellana._

Three weeks into school, a very large Qunari sits down at the table where Ellana and Krem are grabbing lunch. Krem has made one last dash for the bread bowls before the buffet runs out, leaving Ellana alone with the intruder. His horns cast long shadows over the table, and deep scars peek out from underneath an eyepatch. A literal eyepatch. Like a pirate. He makes the chair he sits on look like it belongs in a kindergarten classroom.

 _I have officially found someone scarier looking than Dr. Sten,_ Ellana thinks.

Her spoon hovers over her mac and cheese. “Um. Hello?”

“Coach!” Krem sets his tray down beside Ellana. “What are you doing here?”

The coach grins, his canine teeth sharp as a wolf’s. “I heard they were serving some crème brûlée so I came to investigate.”

He throws his head back and laughs while Krem rolls his eyes.

“Are these stupid puns ever going away?”

“Not ever,” says the coach. He turns to Ellana and sticks out a hand that could cover her entire face. “I’m The Iron Bull. I coach the hockey team.”

“Ellana Lavellan.” Her entire hand disappears in his grip when she shakes hands, but he is careful not to crush her fingers. “The Iron Bull? That’s your real name?”

“Yeah.” He says matter-of-factly. “It’s _cool._ ”

“It’s ridiculous, but he won’t tell anyone his real name. It’s not even listed in the faculty directory online,” says Krem.

“This _is_ my real name,” says the Iron Bull, but he’s grinning. “Don’t be jealous because your parents named you after a fancy dessert.”

Krem’s eyes turn skyward, but a smile twitches in the corner of his lips.

“So how are classes?” the coach asks. “Got any asshole professors? You doing your homework?”

Ellana’s eyes slide to Krem, their dorm situation like the pink druffalo in the room.

“Yes, _Dad,”_ says Krem _._ “I do all my homework, I take notes in class, I study in the library. I’m not an idiot, you know.”

Ellana bites her lip and looks back down at her mac and cheese. It’s none of her business if Krem doesn’t want to say anything.

“I don’t give scholarships to idiots,” says Iron Bull almost dismissively, as if the notion of Krem’s stupidity could never cross his mind. “Just seeing if you’re having a good time, if you’re making friends.” He nods to Ellana.

“I don’t have friends,” says Krem, “I’m bribing her to sit with me.”

“With gummy bears,” Ellana adds, dead pan.

The Iron Bull chuckles. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave you be. Just make sure you’re not late to practice, Cream Puff.”

He pats the table before leaving.

“So he’s . . . nice,” Ellana says, fishing around for something to fill the silence.

“He scouted me back in high school,” says Krem. “He arranged for my scholarship so I could be here.”

The situation sounds eerily familiar.

“You didn’t tell him,” she says. “I think that’s something he’d probably want to know.”

“He would go _ballistic_ ,” Krem confirms. “But . . . he’s gone through enough for me. I don’t want him to put his job at risk because of something stupid like my dorm room.”

“It’s not _stupid_. It’s outright discrimination! And what do you mean, he’s gone through enough?”

He looks away. “That eyepatch? He got it defending me. I was the only so called “girl” on the team, and I’m good. The opposing team didn’t like that I beat them, so they ambushed me in the parking lot after everyone left.” A grin peeks out in the corners of his mouth. “But Iron Bull was there, waiting to talk to me about college, and he saw what they were up to and . . . well you’ve seen him. He took on four of them at once. But someone elbowed him in the eye and he ended up losing it.”

“Holy shit,” Ellana says because how else can you react to a story like that?

“He was chatting me up about playing for Skyhold while we were sitting in the emergency room. He didn’t care about who or what I was, he just admired my ability. When I told him that there was no way I could afford to go to college, especially at Skyhold, he got me a full ride. I owe him a lot as it is.”

“I get it. I’m sort of in the same position.” She blurts it out without meaning to.

“You are?”

Krem’s face looks so hopeful at the prospect of someone who understands that Ellana can’t really back down, even though this will make her even more bizarre.

“My scholarship is not really a scholarship so much as like a mysterious benefactor feeling sorry for me and paying for all of my shit?”

For a long, silent moment Krem just stares at her with his head cocked to the side. “ . . . _What?”_

So Ellana explains it the best she can. Hell, she doesn’t even understand it herself.

“You don’t know this person?”

“Nope. I’ve never seen him before. Or maybe I have, but he was just some random person in the library and I didn’t pay attention.”

“And you’ve never talked to him or interacted with him?”

“Not that I know of.”

“And he just saw you reading in the library and decided to pay your way through college because . . . he felt bad for you?”

Ellana shrugs. “I swear to the Creators, Krem, I’m not making this up.”

“It sounds sketchy as hell.”

“Oh yeah. I know. And I’m still kind of waiting for it all to blow up in my face, but for now it’s working out. I just know what if feels like owing someone and not wanting to make it any worse.”

“And if he turns out to be part of the Carta and expects you to repay your debts, what then?”

“Well . . . I better live it up these next four years, huh.”

Krem laughs and lifts up his soft drink. “To the next four years, then.”

“To the next four years.”

Or semester. Or week. Who the hell knows if or when Fen’Harel might pull the plug in this whole ordeal. However, if Ellana didn’t like living outside her comfort zone, she would have never left the Dales.

 

 

 


	2. 1st Semester Freshman Year Part 2

Once Ellana gets acquainted with the library, she never wants to leave. There are a hundred hidden corners with squishy chairs or couches stashed away, and even though sometimes it’s a pain in the ass to find one that’s not occupied by an amorous couple, she loves it.

Krem has got her obsessed with this insanely long, complex fantasy series where each book is roughly as thick as her own head, and in between homework and class and eating, Ellana spends a lot of time holed up in a corner reading them. Sometimes Krem will join her when he’s not gadding about with his fellow Chargers, all of whom now routinely crash their study sessions, which have to be held out in the Quad because of how noisy they all are.

But today sunlight streams in the window behind her, a good book lay open in her lap, and the quiet of the library soothes her, just like it had in Orlais, when she had to steal snatches of precious free time in between the revolving door of her three jobs.

Even back in the Dales the amount of work required for an average day exhausted Ellana more often than not. This is the most amount of free time she’s ever had since before her parents died.

A rush of affection and gratitude compels her to slide out her phone and type a message to Fen’Harel.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: I am going to marry this library_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_The library here alone is worth enough to confess any information about that you ever wanted about me. My favorite color. My most embarrassing childhood nickname. Why I left the Dales. You name it._

_Except you won’t, because you never respond and all the emails are probably sitting in your spam box._

_And also I can’t shake the idea of you as some insane Carta mafia head who’s just waiting for me to graduate so you can turn me into a drug mule until I repay my debt. So you’re not getting any seriously revealing information from me anyway, haha._

_I will tell you my favorite color, though, but only because this library is just so amazing._

_It’s green. A deep, lush green, like grass in afternoon sunlight. (Varric is getting us to experiment with poetry. I’m not very good at it.)_

_Yours,_

_Ellana._

 

Besides checking for basic spelling and grammar mistakes, Ellana doesn’t think much about what she sends to Fen’Harel. Her emails would sound a lot different if she were sending them to Abelas, but talking to Fen’Harel is like talking to a wax dummy. Not even the slightest hint about who or what he might be colors her perception of him. She could imagine anything she wanted, but she doesn’t. Ellana likes the anonymity of him; it’s relaxing.

Still, obviously she holds herself back. Her messages to Fen’Harel don’t sound anything like the texts she sends to Alistair. The most important parts of her personality she withholds for safe-keeping.

Until around the end of Harvestmere, when she types out her email in shaking fingers, and all hope of careful neutrality goes out the window.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Sorry, but I’m not sorry._

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_I don’t know if the University emails you about me or what, since this isn’t a traditional scholarship. But I thought I would just warn you that today I decked an asshole in the cafeteria and my hands are still shaking and my knuckles are bruised and swelling and I would do it again in a fucking heartbeat._

_I haven’t talked much about Krem, my roommate and good friend.  I don’t have a problem with Krem. Krem is an amazing roommate, always funny and respectful and doesn’t keep crazy hours or fuck everybody in our room like I hear others doing. But Krem is living in a girl’s dorm as a girl when he so clearly identifies as a guy. And he is never creepy or weird or uncomfortable, but I can see him bending backwards every day to make sure that I’m not freaked out by him and he can never fucking relax in his own room._

_This is bullshit. Apparently his request for a transfer was denied based on his birth records and I’m just_

_I don’t know. I’m beyond pissed, even though I feel like I shouldn’t have the right to be this fucking angry when it’s not adversely affecting me but whatever. It’s been going on and Krem won’t speak up about it and if he wants to deal with it, that’s his business._

_But today in the cafeteria some scum-sucking_ shem _picked a fight with Krem, apparently because Krem’s a better field hockey player. He just walked up out of nowhere and started screaming at him and called Krem_

_No. You know what, I’m not repeating that. But it was cruel enough to make Krem freeze up and to make me drive my fist into his miserable, fucking face._

_Anyway, I’m on probation. I don’t know if that affects anything with you or not, but I figured at least you should hear it from me._

_If you’re expecting an insightful email where I reflect on my actions and decide to mature, then I’m sorry. That guy was a jackass and Krem deserved better and I’ll do it again tomorrow if he even looks at Krem the wrong way again._

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

 

For a week that email haunted her. What if Fen’Harel took her probation seriously and rescinded his money? What if all the swearing offended him and he took away her scholarship? What if he didn’t like her unrepentant attitude and thought perhaps she didn’t deserve her scholarship – and took it away?

Even though her entire future has always depended on the whim of his charity, it never felt as fragile as it did now.

For a week Ellana couldn’t open her inbox. And when she finally did, the only emails sitting in her inbox were coupons from the late-night diner she and Alistair used to frequent.

Fen’Harel had said nothing.

Maybe he didn’t read them after all.

 

She doesn’t know who to thank, luck or the Creators or fate, but Varric witnessed the entire scene, from the slur hurled at Krem to the way the human’s face snapped to the side like a meat sack (according to his flowery prose) when Ellana hit him.

When she is inevitably pulled into the campus security office, Varric is right there with her, written statements from various student witnesses in hand.

“You’ve got a lot more to worry about than a case of instigated assault,” he points out to the campus police. “First of all, the hate speech is going to cause more public outcry than the elf punching. Secondly, you have a human who clearly designs himself male living in an all girls’ dorm because of his birth certificate, never mind that he’s on the _boys’ hockey team_. That’s a hell of lawsuit waiting to happen right there, not to mention a shit ton of negative press. Does Coach Bull even _know_ about this?”

Ellana and Krem can only nod along and stare in awe at someone as short as Varric so angry he’s practically foaming at the mouth and making the Qunari police officer lean instinctively back.

Needless to say, the man who spat the slur at Krem gets put on probation, kicked off the team, and no charges are pressed on Ellana.

“You’re like a knight in shining armor,” she tells Varric on their way out. “That was _amazing.”_

“Don’t even, kid,” says Varric, waving a dismissing hand. “I just like having the upper hand in all things. If anyone’s amazing, it’s you. Goddamn, looking at you I never expected you to just haul off and deck that guy! I’m going to start calling you the Inquisitor.”

It’s by far not the first time that Ellana has ever decked a person, but she tries to keep the details her of rougher childhood years under wraps now that all the witnesses are conveniently stuck back in the Dales.

“Why Inquisitor?”

“From that movie, The History of Thedas? Nobody expects the Inquisition!” Varric says with a horribly fake Orlesian accent. “No?” he says to her blank look. “Andraste’s tits, did you grow up under a rock? Everyone’s seen that movie.”

“Actually, the Dalish live in treehouses without any electricity,” Ellana deadpans, remembering one of the more outlandish rumors she encountered in Orlais. “What’s a movie?”

Varric chuckles. “I’ll let you borrow it sometime. It’s the perfect movie to quote from.”

“Honestly, Varric, what you did for me . . . “ Ellana swallows. “I don’t know how I could ever thank you or repay you.”

Varric gives her a speculative look. “I didn’t do it so you would feel like you owed me,” he says. “Buuuut . . . if you’re feeling that way, then we can head over to the café and you can share your story over a cappuccino, eh?”

For weeks Varric has been sniffing around for hints about her story with less and less subtlety. It’s become a bit of a game for them, where Varric will offer increasingly outrageous explanations for Ellana to confirm or deny.

“I suppose you’ve earned it,” she says.

If Varric didn’t prove trustworthy before, he certainly has now. And he would definitely get a kick out of how weird it is.

There are three coffeeshops on campus and Varric takes her to one with a deck with an overlook of the rushing river thousands of feet below. They carry their coffee to the back corner table.

“This is going to sound really weird,” she warns him.

“I’m counting on it.”

She launches into her story, trying to remember tips that Varric has given the class when telling a good story. She sets the scene with the library, does her best impression of Abelas’ flat, joyless tone, describes her deep skepticism and fragile hope.

“And well . . . here I am?” she ends, shrugging her shoulders.

“That is a hell of a story, Inquisitor. But we have got to work on your endings,” Varric advises. “So, just to sum up here: your entire ride is being paid by a mysterious benefactor that you’ve never met before who calls himself Fen’Harel – “

Something in Varric’s face shifts, a realization dawning, for brief moment before he buries it away just as quickly as it came.

“Do you know who it is?” Ellana asks.

“I wish!” Varric says. “Honey, I may know a lot of people, but you’re not exactly giving me much to go off of. It’s just weird, you know, what he calls himself, considering you’re Dalish.”

“It is,” she agrees.

“Do you think he reads your emails?”

“No. I told him about what happened with Krem and he never responded. But he never responds to anything I send him, so that’s nothing new.”

“Hmmm.” Varric rubs his chin. “Well, you were right. It’s a weird-ass story. I might have to use it somewhere.”

“As long as I get some kind of writing credit.” She sighs theatrically.  “But now that you know, I suppose I’ve lost all my mystery.”

“Oh, we haven’t even gotten started. This was just a warm up. The _real_ story is why you left the Dales in the first place.”

“Well,” Ellana says, sitting back. “You’re not getting that one for a long time.”

Varric mirrors her pose. “I’m a patient man. I’ll just wait until you punch somebody else.”

 

The weather turns a bit nippy, but that doesn’t stop Ellana from bundling up and dragging Krem to the Quad to finish Dr. Pavus’ homework problems.

“Are all Dalish elves as obsessed with the outside as you are?” he grumbles, buttoning his coat.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Ellana says. “Look at the leaves. They’re gorgeous.”

“The wind is blowing! It’s cold!”

“It’s smells so good! Suck it up, Krem, or I’ll tell Coach Bull how much of a crybaby you are.”

They settle under a tree with leaves that hang like jewels and finish up Math’s homework before class tomorrow morning. The problem set ends up distracting Krem from his whining and they make good progress right up until a large shadow looms over them.

Ellana looks up to see Iron Bull, glaring down at them from a ridiculous height and looking piss-in-your-pants terrifying.

“You’ve been living in a _girl’s dorm_ , you little shit, and you didn’t _tell me?_ ” he booms.

Ellana swallows, feeling like she got caught by the village Scary Dad who doesn’t mind giving ass-whippings to kids that aren’t his, even though she hasn’t done anything wrong.

“I told you, Ellana,” says Krem, completely unfazed. “He’s like Maferath – call his name and he appears.”

“Krem,” Iron Bull says warningly, and there is no trace of his usual joking demeanor.

Krem juts his chin out. “I didn’t want to complain, Coach. I was getting it resolved myself.”

“ _Complain_?” Iron Bull throws his eyes skyward. “Goddamn it, Krem. Living in the wrong dorm because of some outdated, humiliating policy is a little different from having your professor bitch about your works cited page.”

“You do enough for me as it is! I don’t want your job at risk because of where I sleep at night. Ellana’s a great roommate. My situation isn’t . . . horrible.”

“Roommate!” Bull exclaims, looking over at her. “I thought she was your girlfriend!”

Krem goes red in the face while Ellana cackles. “No!”

“Look, they’re not going to fire me – I’m tenured. And no one else is crazy enough to coach you rough and tumble bastards anyway. But I thought you trusted me enough to tell me about shit like this. I should have to hear about it from Varric Tethras.”

The hurt in his voice is enough to make Krem visibly squirm. “That’s not why I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re an idiot.” Iron Bull relaxes. “Don’t worry. Between Varric and I, we’ll get it resolved. But if anyone else gives you _any_ crap about who you, you tell me. _Immediately._ Or . . . I’ll bench you.”

Krem lets out a bark of laughter. “Right. Bench your best player. I’d like to see you try.”

Iron Bull turns his one eye onto Ellana. “Has anyone ever taught you how to fight?”

“Um,” Ellana says, thinking back to the stupid scuffles she used to get into as a kid. “Not really. I kind of just . . . learned by doing?”

“You should stop by the field after practice. I’ll show you how to throw a few punches. You’re lucky you didn’t break your hand on that bastard’s face.”

 

Two weeks later, Ellana helps Krem pack up his belongings and move into a dorm with a fellow teammate named “Stitches.” Apparently, everyone on the Chargers has stupid nicknames and Stiches is in pre-med.

“It kind of sucks to move out,” Krem says. “I mean, I’m glad I’m getting acknowledged for being a dude, but I’m going to miss being roommates.”

“We still have class together,” Ellana points out. “Too bad we can’t move into the co-ed dorm together.”

Krem gives her a crooked smile. “We’d have to be married for that.”

“I’m willing to get a marriage of convenience if you are,” she jokes.

“If Stitches is that much of a shitty roommate, I might consider it.”

“Or whoever I’m rooming with,” Ellana says somewhat darkly. “They haven’t given me any information on her. She could be a complete psychopath.”

“Well my dorm’s on the first floor, so if she tries to murder you, just crawl through my window. We’ll beat her up with a hockey stick.”

“ . . . that’s oddly reassuring.”

 

Ellana likes to stay positive. That’s how she got the courage to move out of the Dales and to survive three low paying retail jobs that tried their hardest to drive her insane. She tells her self that her roommate will be awesome; someone who is quiet but sarcastic and likes to study and read a lot. Someone who’s essentially the girl version of Krem. (She misses Krem. A lot.)

The Saturday after Krem moves out, Ellana comes back in from getting her morning coffee to see a girl surveying her open suitcase, a tablet and stylus balanced in her hand like a clipboard and pen.

“Toiletries . . . check. Phone charger . . .” she peers closer into the suitcase. “Hold on. Phone charger . . . don’t tell me I left it behind!” She bends over and starts digging through the zip-up pocket.

Ellana checked her watch. 7:30. Most of her classmates can’t form coherent sentences for at least another three hours. 

“Good . . . morning?” she says.

The girl turns around and her eyes widened. “Oh! Good morning. You must be Ellana Lavellan.”

The accent hits Ellana first, all rolling r’s and crisp consonants. It’s a gentler version of Cassandra’s. “Guilty. Your accent . . . is that Antivan?”

“Ah. Yes.  Your tattoos . . . Dalish?”

“Yes.”

Most people usually stare when they first meet her, either because seeing a Dalish elf at university is as likely as seeing bog unicorn, or because they think her tattoos are cool. But this girl barely spares it a second glance and sticks her hand out and Ellana shakes it.

“Josephine Montilyet, your new roommate. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her eyes are gold, like an antique wedding ring. Ellana’s never seen eyes that color and now she’s the one staring.

“Ellana Lavellan, but you already knew that.”

Josephine rifles through her clipboard and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Here is a sort of . . . get to know you survey I compiled. I thought this might makes the transition easier if we knew each other’s habits. Then we can go over each other’s answers.”

“That’s efficient.” Ellana takes the paper and sits at her desk.

The first questions are the basics, like birthdays and major and coffee vs tea. Then it gets into hobbies, favorite movies, pet peeves, what time Ellana goes to bed and wakes up, her expected GPA at the end of the semester and her class schedule.

Ellana scribbles the answers down dutifully.

Meanwhile Josephine unpacks her suitcase with her trusty checklist, storing everything neatly in her nightstand, dresser, and closet. Ellana can tell right away that she’s neater even than Krem, who redefined the term “neat freak” and killed stereotypes for college dudes everywhere. Ellana doesn’t live like a pig either, but she’s clearly going to have to up her game to stay on Josephine’s level.

“Finished,” Ellana says. “Do you look at these over breakfast? The cafeteria should be open by now.”

“That sounds wonderful. But, uh, we might have to make a pit stop,” Josephine winces. “I think I left my charger back in my old dorm?”

Ellana grins.

 

When they compare schedules, it turns out Josephine has been in Ellana’s Art History class the entire semester.

“How did we not see each other?” Josephine bemoans over Orlesian toast.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t look away from those slide shows for a second. I don’t want to know what Dr. Sten would do to me if he thought I wasn’t paying attention.”

Josephine giggles. “I take more notes in his class than any other for the same reason! I have pages and pages of them.”

The more Ellana scans over Josephine’s answers, the less she worries about her new roommate. According to her elegant, loopy cursive, Josephine is a sophomore studying political science and has never made less than a 4.0 in her life. She wakes up promptly at six-thirty every morning, doesn’t drink or stay up later than ten on a weekday, loves old black-and-white romance movies, swimming, and tea of all kinds.

“I will also eat chocolate until I puke,” Josephine adds. “Leliana sends me these candies from Carastia and I would eat them until they killed if me I could.”

“Leliana?” Ellana asks.

“My old roommate. She ditched me to study abroad.” Though Josephine smiles, there’s something sad in it. “I thought I would be fine living by myself this semester, but . . . I got unexpectedly lonely, so I put in a request for a roommate for next semester. I didn’t think I’d get one so soon! What happened to your roommate?”

“They – uh – felt more comfortable in a different dorm,” Ellana hedges, not wanting to out Krem, even if Josephine seemed so nice.

“I see.” Josephine gives her an odd look, but doesn’t push further.

 

On the surface, Josephine is everything that Ellana usually hates about humanity -- obscenely rich (her parents are honest-to-gods _nobility)_ , obsessed with clothes and decorating, and totally oblivious about her model good-looks – and yet somehow it’s impossible to hate her (To be fair, the microwave _and_ coffee machine she smuggled into the dorm earned her _many_ brownies points in her favor).

There’s nothing constructed or insincere in Josephine’s kindness, and trust her, Ellana has _looked_. She has scrutinized everything Josephine has said or done for the week.

For example, when Josephine offers Ellana pieces from her designer wardrobe because the blouse/skirt/diamond necklace would look “adorable!” with whatever worn t-shirt and thrift store jeans Ellana’s wearing – is this some subtle way to telling Ellana how disgusting she looks?

As it turns out, no. Josephine grew up with a younger sister and it’s second nature to share all of her clothes.

“Trust me, it was much better to be generous with my clothes than to have Yvette steal them behind my back.”

(and Ellana looks down in hidden shame, remembering all the jackets and henleys and flannel that she’s swiped from both Alistair _and_ Krem).

It takes some time before Ellana gets comfortable wearing the incredibly expensive pieces that Josephine foists on her -- and she doesn’t touch her jewelry with a ten-foot pole – and then it becomes an unspoken rule that Ellana can help herself to anything she wants if Josephine can cuddle up in Ellana’s sweatpants and worn t-shirts and stolen flannel.

 

But the best part of Josephine is that she somehow knows to couch her generosity in a way that doesn’t prickle at Ellana’s pride.

That first afternoon, Josephine decorates her side of the dorm so flawlessly it looks straight out of a catalog. All the fairy lights and gold accents and beautiful framed pictures of beaches and vineyards makes Ellana’s frayed comforter, beat up laundry basket and the stolen cup from the cafeteria that houses her pen collection look frankly pathetic.

Josephine definitely notices, casting a critical eye over Ellana’s side of the room. But she says nothing, and then a week later a deep green velvet comforter comes for her in the mail.

“My parents,” Josephine says with an eyeroll. “They’re constantly sending me things they think I’ve forgotten. But I have no use for this. Would you like it?”

Ellana jerks her fingers away, which have been tracing the delicate gold embroidery that lines the hem.

“I can’t. This is yours and it looks expensive.”

“But I like mine better, and the cost to ship this all the way back to Antiva would be outrageous.” Still sensing Ellana’s reluctance, Josephine shrugs. “You could borrow it, then, until you buy yourself another comforter.”

Borrow. That feels a lot better than taking.  She’ll borrow it until she decides to spend some of her stipend on a less shitty comforter. Perhaps when the winter sales hit in a month or so.

Josephine helps take down and fold Ellana’s old comforter and spread the new one on. It looks like a carpet of fresh summer grass and laying on it makes Ellana feel like a princess.

When Ellana takes the garbage out a few days later, she notices the shipping label on the box it came in. Antiva is nowhere on it.

In short, Josephine Montilyet is the shit.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: I am FREAKING OUT RIGHT NOW_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_You remember that time that I emailed you at two in the morning in the bathroom because I had a nightmare about sucking at college?_

_Well, you’ll never guess what time it is right now. Actually, this is time stamped, so you totally will, but you’ll never guess where I’m typing this all out on my phone?_

_If you said the bathroom, you get a sticker!_

_Sorry if I sound weird, but finals start tomorrow and I’m freaking the fuck out right now. All but one of my classes is making the final worth half of our grade!_

_Half!_

_That means if I could work my ass off and get stellar grades on all my papers and if I bomb the final, I still flunk the class. It’s bullshit! It’s a ton of pressure and I just_

_Look, I’ve never actually taken a final before, okay? Dalish education is . . .different than everyone else’s. First of all, we didn’t even have finals. One school serviced_ all _the children,_ all _the grades for at least three clans. And all of our teachers were Dalish and none of them had a college education and I’m not saying that they were stupid. Dalish are not stupid. Our curriculum was just limited and it revolved around being Dalish._

_Like, math classes revolved more around the worth of our Halla milk and how not to get screwed over by hipster shems who wanted to buy it.  And History was all about Dalish history, and how many times we’ve gotten fucked over by the Chantry since the fall of Arlathan. Literature had us analyze Dalish legends and mythology for deeper themes that supported our culture._

_Not to mention that a lot of our education is all practical – carpentry, agriculture, welding, animal husbandry, economics._

_Dalish education prepared me to live and support myself with as much independence from humans as physically possible. I could totally run away into the Arbor Wilds and live like a hermit in a house I built myself and not starve together if I wanted to._

_If I wanted to learn anything outside of that, I had to teach it to myself. And I did. I saved up money to buy books online, I read anything I could my hands on in libraries, which is supposedly how you met me._

_But it did nothing to prepare me for Skyhold. And I cannot stomach the thought of flunking after trying so freaking hard, but I feel like I’m in a race where everyone else got this massive head start and here I am, trying to beat it when I started a hundred yards behind everyone else and my shoes are made of lead._

_It’s bullshit._

_I think my leg is falling asleep._

_Yours,_

_Ellana._

For the next week, all of Ellana’s free time gets shunted towards studying. She practically lives in the library, rewriting all of her notes, doing extra practice problems in the math textbook, rewatching all of Dr. Sten’s slideshows.

She even out-studies Josephine, who repeatedly begs her to take a break.

“Ellana, come and get some coffee,” her roommate pleads. “You’ve been at it for four hours! You should take a break. Krem and Cassie are both at the coffee shop already.”

“I will,” Ellana says, “after I finish these notes.”

Josephine sighs. “Ellana, you are wearing yourself out. It’s not healthy.”

“It’s temporary, Josie. I’ll be fine once finals are over. Go ahead and meet up with Krem and Cassie, and I’ll join you guys later.”

“Fine. But if I don’t see you for dinner, I’ll have Coach Bull drag you out of here personally.”

 

Quite a while later, a to-go cup of coffee appears in front of her, pushed across the table by long, tan fingers with a familiar snake ring.

“And here’s a sandwich,” Dr. Pavus adds, setting a white paper bag on the table. “Eat quickly before Wynne finds us and beats me with her cane.”

He leans his chair back and peers around the bookshelf Ellana has sequestered herself behind for the head librarian.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“A little birdie told me that you’re trying to kill yourself via studying.”

Josie. She must be really fed up to find Dr. Pavus.

“So they sent you?”

“I’m your advisor, aren’t I?” Dr. Pavus says, placing his hand over his heart. “It’s my job to advise you, but I didn’t think you’d be this bad, darling. You know, this amount of stress is generally reserved for new parents and graduate students.”

Ellana flushes. “I just want to do well,” she says.

“And why do you think you won’t? By the by, if Wynne ever sees that sandwich we are both going to banned for life and I know how much you love the library.”

Quietly, Ellana opens the bag to find a turkey and cheese on rye, and her small bites turn into barely polite devouring, hunger suddenly flaring up. “I’ve never had a final before,” she admits in between bites. “And I’m not going to live up to expectations that I’m a backwoods Dalish idiot by flunking my first term.”

“Backwoods idiot?” Dr. Pavus scoffs. “Don’t be absurd. Nobody thinks that.”

She gives him a skeptical look. “I know what my stereotypes are. I’m not going to prove any of them right.”

Dr. Pavus folds his fingers under his chin. “I’m Tevine and even though I’ve been a part of this university for a decade, certain professors or scientists refuse to collaborate with me because they think I’ll steal their work for my own and stab them in the back. I also get audited by tax collectors every year to ensure I’m not funneling my money into human trafficking rings. So, I know a thing or two about stereotypes. And the best advice I can give you is to not give a fuck.”

Ellana’s attention snaps from her coffee at the swear word. She opens her mouth to say something and Dorian holds up his hand.

“I know, I know, it’s much easier said than done. Believe me. But stereotypes can become a self-fulfilling prophecy if you’re not careful. For example, you could bomb your finals because you’re stressing and panicking and not getting any sleep or eating, and that’s always a recipe for disaster.”

Ellana drops her gaze back to her coffee. It’s too easy to envision herself doing exactly that next week.

“If you would stop obsessing over other people’s expectations for you for five minutes, you would realize that someone who has received good marks all semester and done all their homework will not have any trouble with the final because they’ve understood the material the whole way through.”

“ . . . that makes sense, I guess,” she reluctantly admits.

“I would hope so! You know, we professors don’t design our finals just to screw hapless freshman out of a passing grade. It’s just a final check of your understanding. Well . . . some of us don’t.”

Ellana smiles. “So, you’re saying I should take a break.”

“I’m saying you should stop altogether. You’ve done two months of studying in five days. Go take a nap.”

“But you just gave me coffee.”

Dr. Pavus throws his hands in the air. “Then go hiking or commune with nature or whatever it is that Dalish elves do for fun.”

“Well there aren’t any elk to have a mud race with, so I’ll have to figure something else out,” she says.

“Excellent. Pack up your things, I’m escorting you out of here. You can’t be trusted.”

Ellana sighs theatrically but secretly she’s relieved to quit. It had started to feel like she’s spinning her wheels anyway, but blind panic drove her on.

“Thank you, Dr. Pavus,” she says as they walk out the library. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to do anything, darling, but stay Tevine and die. Now go and relax, and if I have any more reports of you cramming, I’ll flunk you on principle.”

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: I AM SO DRUNK RN. Also WTF_

_Dear Fen’Harel_

_I passed! I passed all my finals! I passed my first semester!_

_And I didn’t just pass first semester, I fucking nailed it._

_I have all A’s and a motherfucking 4.0._

_Sorry for all the cussing, I’m just really godsdamn excited. Holy shit. A 4.0. At SKYHOLD._

_Also I’m hella drunk right now. Krem, Josie, Cassie and Varric and I all hit up a bar downtown called The Hanged Man. It’s sketchy as hell but no one asks for ID so it evens out. Plus everyone knows Varric because he writes all his books in a booth in the corner and practically lives there._

_Apparently Varric hangs out with students all the time, since most professors have their syllabus’s too far up their ass to have a good time. (his words, not mine). His most recent batch of student friends all graduated and ditched him, so I think my group of friends are the new substitutes._

_I don’t care, cause Varric is awesome! He bailed me out when I bitch-slapped that asshole who called Krem a tranny and he gave me a 102% on my test._

_Also he’s paying for everyone’s drinks cause he’s loaded._

_Anyway I’m in bed and waiting for the room to stop spinning before I can go to sleep._

_So all semester I’ve been wondering, okay? Do you actually read any of this shit? Or they all go straight to spam and these emails are like yelling into the void? I mean, I punched a dude out and you never responded. I have like, two separate massive panic attacks and you never responded. I’m drunk off my ass and got a 4.0 and you’ll never respond, not even to congratulate me or tell me how to get rid of a hangover._

_It’s cold, dude. It doesn’t make any sense. How can you gift me with this amazing opportunity and yet not give a single shit about my life? What the fuck?_

_Whatever._

_Ellana_

_P.S. I went through the whole stupid email and fixed all the spelling mistakes I fat fingered because I’m still super drunk so you better fucking appreciate it okay?_

 

Ellana wakes up with her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth and a killer headache.

“If you need to vomit, there’s a trashcan beside your bed.”

Ellana cracks an eye open to see Cassandra sitting at her desk, flipping through one of Josephine’s travel magazines.

“There’s a bottle if painkillers and some water on your nightstand,” Cassandra continues, her voice barely a whisper and yet it still hurts.

It takes a moment for her words to process and then Ellana is tearing open the bottle and chugging the water.

“What are you doing here?” Ellana manages to croak.

“I knew you would need someone,” Cassandra says, flipping over a page. “You drank quite a bit last night. I’m impressed. Usually that kind of capacity is reserved for someone older.”

“I grew up on . . . Dalish moonshine,” Ellana whispers. She closes her eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. “How’s Josie?”

“Still sleeping. She also drank more than I expected, but Antivans _are_ liberal with their wine and they start at a young age. I highly suggest you do the same. I’ll be here in case you need an ambulance called.”

“Love you, Cassie,” Ellana mumbles and then settles back into her pillow and sleeps.

 

When she wakes up a second time, the sun streams through the curtains and it doesn’t kill her. Josie and her shampoo caddy are gone. Cassandra is reading a different book.

“Feeling better?” she asks.

“Much. Though my mouth tastes _awful_ ,” Ellana says.

Cassandra nods at the second water bottle resting on the nightstand. As Ellana sips on it, she tries to replay the events of last night.

She remembers Krem teaching her how to play pool. She remembers Cassandra and Varric getting into a heated debate over some book they read. She remembers Josie eating shelled peanuts like they would die out forever the next day.

She remembers laying in this bed, typing on her phone to distract herself from her dizziness and –

Oh. Oh no. Oh Creators.

She dives through the blankets for her phone, and opens up her sent emails. With each paragraph her horror grows until she throws her phone back on the bed with a groan.

“Something the matter?” Cassandra asks.

“I drunk texted someone,” she says which is mostly true.

Her friend chuckles. “I would recommend a shower and some breakfast before making amends.”

 

So distracted by mentally composing an apology email in her mind, Ellana ends up shampooing her hair twice and skips her face-wash entirely. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Panic attacks aside, she had a perfect first semester and she desperately wants it to continue.

She doesn’t regret feeling frustrated over Fen’Harel’s total lack of communication, even though Abelas warned her about it. But she does regret the entitled attitude she read in her email, as if Fen’Harel _owed_ her some kind of relationship, despite everything else he is giving her.

And he could have decided to give his charity to someone more grateful or deserving.

But when she opens up her email to apologize, a bolded reply to her drunk email sits in her inbox.

For a second, it feels like her heart has stopped.

 _Oh fucking Creators, I am fucked,_ she thinks. But she forces herself to open it.

 

_To: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_From: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_Re: I AM SO DRUNK RN also WTF_

_Ellana,_

_This is to reassure you that I do, in fact, read all of your “shit.” You are not screaming to the void. Indeed, you have a rather captive audience for your stories and your humor. I am a busy man and I don’t have the time to reply as I wish, but I always read._

_Also, the best cure for a hangover is lots of water, sleep, and honey toast. I bid you a speedy recovery for what is no doubt a painful headache this morning._

_Yours,_

_Fen’Harel_

_P.S. Congratulations, by the way. Though I must admit, I’ve never shared your doubts about your abilities, and so I didn’t think congratulations were needed._

“Well fuck me and call me a halla’s uncle,” she whispers.

 


	3. Winter Break Freshman Year

True to its name, Winter Break gets christened with a massive blizzard that dumps six feet of snow and kills all traffic coming in and out of the university. Even the airlifts and subway transit to and from the mountain top are out of commission. Everyone is stuck.

“It’ll be at least a week before I can fly back to Antiva,” Josephine moans, huddled on her duvet and wearing both of her Skyhold U sweatshirts. “I could puke at the sight of all this snow!”

Josie doesn’t handle the cold very well. Ellana’s an old veteran, having lived through many a blizzard with only a fireplace and a shit ton of blankets for warmth. But even she’s getting chilly now that the dorms have lowered the thermostat in an effort to conserve electricity.

 

 _To:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

 _From:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_Subject: Buried Alive_

_Thanks for the offer for tickets back to the Dales, but a massive blizzard just dumped almost ten feet of snow and no one is getting off the mountain for a while. I don’t mind, actually. Krem and I have been taking on the rest of the Chargers in snowball fights and we made a makeshift sled out of cardboard boxes and duct tape._

_Actually, Cassandra taught us that particular trick and she even helped us make them. It took some wheedling, but we finally got her to race us down the hill a few times. (She won every time)._

_Besides, I’ve been away from home so long that I’m used to it. Six more months won’t be so long of a wait._

_The only real annoying thing about this whole fiasco is Josie, my roommate. Coming from Antiva, she is not used to this kind of climate at all and she is both super pissed at how cold it is and that she can’t get back home to her private beach. I love Josie to death and she’s amazing, but I swear I might choke her if I have to hear her whine about the snow one more time._

_I’d say take that ticket money and maybe ship me a few books and a snow jacket, but not even mail is running up here yet. Especially since this blizzard is predicted to bury Ferelden now that it’s had its wicked way with Skyhold. So wherever you are, Fen’Harel, I hope you’re warm with a happy, quiet roommate because Creators knows I don’t have either._

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

_P.S. See how I spent this entire letter pretending that my drunken email fiasco never happened? Let’s keep that up. As much as I appreciate you breaking your vow of silence just to reassure me, I will never live that moment down. It’s going in the Ellana Embarrasses Herself Hall of Fame and trust me, that particular gallery is already full as it is._

Three days in, Josephine and Ellana are huddled in Josie’s twin bed with all the blankets from both of their beds on top, reading. There isn’t much else to do but read, since the internet hasn’t gotten fixed. Ellana has just enough cell reception to send Fen’Harel an email updating him on her snowed-in status, but videos and images take an eternity to load.

“Ugh! That is _it!”_ Josephine yells suddenly, chucking her phone across the room. It bounces harmlessly against the wall and lands in a basket of laundry. “I am transferring to Antiva the second this snow thaws!”

“What happened?” Ellana asks. She has never seen Josie throw a tantrum before, and it’s morbidly fascinating, like hearing a child actor curse.

“The weather update says another storm is coming our way,” Josie explains miserably.  “It’s going to drop at least four more inches on us. I am so _sick_ –“

“ – of this snow,” Ellana finishes for her, flipping the page in her book. “And you’re sick of how dry it makes your hair and it’s a frizzy mess all the time. And you’re running out of your favorite fancy Antivan lotion because your elbows are scaly, and you can’t smell anything because of how dry your nose is and you can’t remember what it feels like to be warm. Did I get it all, or did I miss one?”

It’s not that she doesn’t feel for Josephine. It sucks that the first snow Josephine gets to experience is a full-scale blizzard.

It’s just that the complaining _never ends_ and Josephine refuses to go out sledding or snow ball fighting or anything else fun to take her mind off it. It’s almost as if she _wants_ to complain, and that’s not like Josie at all.

A dead silence follows her comments. She looks over at Josephine and sees tears pricking at the corner of her eyes.

 _Oh shit._ What kind of person makes Josephine Montiliyet cry? It’s like kicking a puppy.

 _What the hell is_ wrong _with me?_

“I’m sorry, Josie, that was out of line,” Ellana says, inwardly panicking. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I’m really sorry –“

“It’s okay,” Josephine says quietly.  “You’re right. I’m complaining too much and in these close quarters it must be really aggravating. I’m just . . . homesick. This is the longest I’ve been away from my family, and I didn’t think I would miss this them much.”

Ellana closes her eyes and wishes Josephine would just punch her in the face. She deserves it.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Ellana says. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. You can complain all you want to. I know this sucks.”

Josephine turns her gaze back to Ellana. “Weren’t you going home, too? Don’t you miss your family?”

Ellana’s throat goes tight suddenly. “I . . . .”

Being so close to her own family, Josephine has gently and subtly probed Ellana about hers in the attempt to get to know her better. And every time, Ellana has deflected. It’s not that she wants to be mysterious on purpose, it’s just that her family story is like a bucket of ice water on Josephine’s happy, hilariously-dysfunctional childhood.

But Josephine has been so open with her, and Ellana still feels like an asshole for earlier, so she swallows and tries to explain in a way that doesn’t make this even more awkward or depressing.

“My parents died when I was eight, so the clan’s kind of my family? I mean, we’re not all related to each other, but they all tried to help raise me. I was kind of a massive asshole for a while, though, and the only person who could put up with me was our Keeper, Istie, so I lived with her until I moved.”

Josephine reaches down and squeezes Ellana’s hand. “That’s _awful_ , Ellana. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’re not prying; it’s a normal question. And I do miss my clan, especially Istie.  But I’ve gotten used to missing them a long time ago. It’s different for you.”

Because Josephine is wonderful, she doesn’t say anything more about the topic. Instead she casts her gaze to the view of the snow-covered campus and sighs.

“Next time you and Krem go sledding, take me with you. If I’m to be stuck here, I might as well have some fun.”

 

By day five, walkways have been dug out between the dorms and the student union/rec center. Unfortunately, none of the coffeeshops are working because none of the workers can get up the mountain to work them, but Skyhold made the arcade and pool tables free to operate until the storms let up.

Ellana, Krem, Josie, and Cassandra all meet up in one of the game rooms to play pool. Smuggled into one of Josephine’s backpacks are the coffeemaker, mugs, and creamer. They plug it up behind the pool table and set Ellana’s backpack in front as a makeshift cover-up, but nothing can dampen the smell of coffee percolating.

However, the only attention it draws are Varric and Dr. Pavus, who wander in the middle of Krem and Ellana’s first game, noses in the air.

“I told you I wasn’t hallucinating,” Dr. Pavus says to Varric. “There _is_ coffee here.”

“What are you two doing here?” Ellana asks.

“I live here,” Varric says. “I’ve got an apartment on campus.”

“I got stuck here,” Dr. Pavus adds flatly. “With him.”

“We were playing diamond-back in the empty coffeeshop.”

“I guess we’ve got coffee to spare for two decent professors,” Ellana says, nodding over to the coffee maker. “It’s behind the backpack.”

“As ingenious as your hiding place is,” says Dr. Pavus with an eyeroll, “there’s really no need for it. There’s no one on campus right now to bust you.”

“There’s you.”

“I could keep a secret for a couple of decent students.”

Both professors are deadly when it comes to pool. They soundly beat the combined forces of Ellana, Krem, and Josie twice and high five each other each time.

“You’re disgusting,” Ellana tells them.

“And you’re a sore loser,” says Varric, grinning. “Third time’s the charm?”

“I’m down,” says Ellana. “Who’s with me?”

Josephine shakes her head. “Count me out. Pool is not my forte.”

“I’ve got my ass beat quite enough, thank you,” says Krem.

“I’ll do it,” pipes up Cassandra.

So far, she’s watched the games with only mild interest, occasionally rolling her eyes whenever Varric does a trick shot and winks at her. She walks up and grabs Krem’s offered pool stick.

“I’ll warn you, it’s been some time since I lasted played,” Cassandra adds.

“We’ll go easy on you,” says Dorian with a smirk.

“We’ll even give you the first shot,” says Varric.

“How gracious of you,” Cassandra replies, sarcasm making her accent even thicker. She turns to Ellana. “Do you mind if I take the first shot?”

Ellana sweeps her arm at the pool table. “After you, my lady.”

Cassandra bends over the table, takes a moment to adjust her posture, and slides the pool stick between her fingers a couple of times before settling in front of the cue ball. She takes a deep, slow breath, and then her pool stick cracks against the cue ball like a gunshot.

Four balls ricochet into their holes.

Like a sniper, Cassandra steadily sinks each and every ball until there are none left, stopping once only to re-chalk her pool stick.

Dorian’s mouth goes slack.

“Where in the _hell_ did you learn how to play like that?” he demands.

“My brother taught me.”

Meanwhile, Varric’s face looks like Satinalia came early.

“You _hustled_ us,” he says, awestruck.

Cassandra juts her chin out. “I did no such thing. I only said I hadn’t played in a while, not that I wasn’t good at it.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not angry. I’m impressed as hell. That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed. Maker, if that’s you being rusty, I’d hate to see you on a good day.”

A light blush colors Cassandra’s cheeks. “It’s nothing, just a silly game,” she insists, but there’s a smirk in the corner of her mouth.

Ellana thinks Varric just fell in love.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_Subject: Second verse, same as the first_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_We survived the blizzard(s)! The snow finally let off a few days ago, and by then it was pointless for anyone to fly out, so we’ve all been stuck with each other this whole break. Well, Josie left. She misses her family a lot, so even just seeing them for three days was enough incentive for her._

_Honestly, it wasn’t so bad. My friends and I ended up throwing a makeshift First Day party at Varric’s apartment, and by then you could get a pizza up the mountain._

_I love learning, I loved my classes last semester, I can’t wait for this semester. But honestly I think the best part of coming to Skyhold are my friends. Alistair is great, but I grew up part of a clan, a group, and until now I didn’t realize how lonely I was._

_If I still did_  Elu'melana _I would write that down as my own secret to burn in the pyre._

_The buffet for this semester includes: Comp 102 with Varric (who would hunt me down if I took it with anyone else), Sociology 101, The Orlesian/Ferelden War, and Dwarven Architecture As Art with Dr. Sten._

_I imagine your eyebrows are as high as Josephine’s when she saw my schedule. Yes, Dr. Sten scares the shit out of me. I barely made a peep in that class, but he still noticed me because he approached me after the final and told me about this course and said, and I quote, “You have an appreciation for art. I hope to see you in my next class. Don’t disappoint me.”_

_It was the scariest conversation I’ve ever had. There’s no way I’m risking not showing up for this class._

_Wish me luck!_

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

More snow follows them during the beginning of that semester, but thankfully nothing like the blizzard from before. Skyhold looks like something from a fairy tale, and Ellana snaps dozens of pictures on her phone and texts them to Alistair. She wishes she could send them to Istie, but her Keeper refused to update her technology past a cordless phone.

The first week goes relatively peacefully, though her Comparative Religions professor seems cranky and overwhelmingly concerned with Andrasteism.  Ellana voices her concerns to Cassandra in the student lounge that weekend.

“I’ve had Dr. Roderick before,” Cassandra tells her. “He is very . . . devoted to his faith. But in my experience, he is not an unreasonable man.”

“Well, keep your fingers crossed, because he looked at my vallaslin the same way you would if I had walked into a Chantry smoking a joint.”

“That sounds like a hell of a scene. Mind if I steal that?”

Varric appears with two coffees in his hand.

“Sure,” says Ellana. “Knock yourself out.”

“I just might. Let’s see here . . .this one is yours, I believe.” Varric sniffs the lid of one of the cups and hands it to her. “Cinnamon vanilla latte.”

“Thanks, Varric.” Ellana takes a long, grateful sip.

Cassandra perks up, eyeing the other cup in his hand. “Is that one mine?”

Varric barely spares her a glance. “Oh no, Seeker, I only buy coffee for my students. It could have been, but you ditched my expertise in favor of some idiotic adjunct still working on his doctorate. So, this very delicious dark chocolate mocha is mine.”

To further prove his point, he takes a deep sip from the cup and then grimaces. “Andraste’s tits, this is sweet. I might have to toss this one.”

“Toss it!” Cassandra cries. “That’s wasteful. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

“I’m sure you would. Dark chocolate mocha is your favorite. But I stand by my principles, Pentaghast. See you in class, Ellana,” he adds, with a little wave.

Then he tosses the cup into the nearest trash can and walks off.

Cassandra stares at his retreating back in shock. “ _What_ has gotten into that _lunatic_?”

Ellana bites her lip to keep from laughing. “I think you’ve hurt his feelings, actually.”

“I doubt that,” Cassandra says scornfully. “Varric’s just upset he can’t irritate me on a daily basis any longer.”

Like a boy pulling on a girl’s pigtail, Ellana muses.

“I don’t know,” she says. “He seemed pretty let down that first day in class when he realized you weren’t coming.”

“It’s nothing personal! I just wanted to be closer to my next class instead of hoofing it from the library every day.”

“Well, it’s still the first week. You can switch classes if you want.”

“As if!” Cassandra crosses her arms. “I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“I hope you like buying your own coffee,” Ellana says and takes another long, delicious sip of her own.

 

Next Tuesday Cassandra appears in class and Varric says not a word, except occasionally a mocha will be resting on the corner of her desk when she arrives.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: This fucking cold_

_Fucking Creators, I thought the Dales got cold, but it has NOTHING on Skyhold. I should have known better, this university being on top of a freaking mountain, but I didn’t. I thought a couple sweatshirts and flannel would be fine so I wouldn’t have to buy a coat. (I hate coats. They’re outrageously expensive and feels like I’m wearing a straitjacket)._

_I was wrong. I was very wrong._

_It doesn’t help that the heat in the dorms really sucks because the architecture is so old. Honest to gods, it feels like the windows just_ suck _the heat out like a parasite._

_I spend most of the time in the library or the student lounge and I only trudge back to the dorm to shiver under my covers like a street urchin. Josie and I have taken to sharing the bed to conserve heat._

_(Oh my gods, when I told Krem that, his eyes glazed over and I just know I’ve hit on some kind of fantasy of his. Unfortunately for him, all we do is gossip through our chattering teeth and clutch each other for warmth)._

_Not to mention that none of the showers have hot water because it takes roughly an hour to work up the guts to step into the freezing bathroom._

_Yesterday I woke up to see actual frost on the INSIDE of the window. THE INSIDE, FEN’HAREL._

_And Skyhold charges thousands of sovereigns for room and board? You need to send the sad lawyer to investigate this shit._

_In other news, classes are good. I’m getting my homework done early because of all the time I spend in the library. I’m also getting better at pool, since I’ve begged Cassandra to teach me her ways. She hustled Varric over break like a true con artist and it’s now my biggest dream to fuck over some cocky frat boy in a bar. Cassandra has also taught me how to beat the shit out of somebody with a cue stick and she won’t share how she knows this information. But one day Varric and I will get her drunk enough to tell us. One day._

_This email is mainly to bitch, since Josie and Cassandra and Krem have all banned me from talking about it. You’re the only person I know that can’t tell me to shut up, so now it’s your turn._

_In short, it’s too godsdamn cold._

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

A week after Ellana sent that pathetic rant to Fen’Harel, a heavy, sizable box comes in the mail. Ellana almost trips over it on her way to class.

“Josie,” she groans.

Her roommate orders _everything_ online, even shampoo and deodorant, rather than buy it in the Student Union or downtown, simply because she loves getting mail.

Ellana dumps the package on Josie’s bed before dashing off before she is late to Sten’s class and gets subsequently executed for it.

That night when she shuffles back in from the library, the package is sitting on her bed.

“You didn’t open it?” Ellana asks, surprised. Josie rips open packages the second they show up, like a kid on Satinalia.

“Why? It’s addressed to you.”

“It is?”

Ellana inspects the box and sees her name and address typed on a sheet of printer paper and taped to the middle. At first, she thinks maybe Istie sent her a care package, but that only ever happens on her birthday, which is weeks away, and Istie doesn’t own a printer or a computer. Plus, there’s no return address.

“Are you going to open it?” Josie asks, peering over her shoulder.

“I didn’t order anything,” Ellana protests. “What if it’s a bomb or poison or something?”

What if somebody wants to hurt the only Dalish elf on campus? The thought makes Ellana’s hackles rise, but it wouldn’t be the first time Dalish elves were attacked simply for straying into “human” territory.

Josephine presses her ear to the box. “I don’t hear any ticking. If you won’t open it, I will.”

As tempting as that offer is, Ellana couldn’t handle it if something intended for her hurt Josephine, so she takes her dorm key and serrates the tap on the box.

Something white and fluffy peeks out. Ellana slowly teases it out of the box to reveal a . . . down comforter?

Josephine gasps. “I know this brand. Very expensive. _Very_ warm.”

The box contains two of these expensive, warm comforters and an envelope containing several sovereign bills and a folded-up note.

It’s typed, just like her address.

 

_Dear Ellana,_

_A shivering student is not a focused student. I, too, remember cold, college winters. Just know that insufficient dorm heat is universal across all campuses. These comforters should keep you and your roommate from freezing to death. I have also included extra funds for you to purchase a coat. Or several more sweatshirts. I leave the choice up to you and have no doubt that your shrewd-minder shopper Josephine will help you find something warm that doesn’t feel like a straitjacket._

_It is only a few more weeks until Spring. Hang in there._

 

Instead of a signature, it’s signed with a paw print sketched in pen.

Ellana’s draw drops.

It’s too much. Way too much. He’s already paying her tuition, her room and board, her food, plus extra spending money. She didn’t write that email as some passive aggressive way to ask for even more than he’s already given her, just to vent off some steam.

She flips out her phone to email him and finds one already sitting in her inbox. There’s no message, only their addresses and a subject line:

 

_To: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_From: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_Subject: I did not include a return address on purpose, so don’t bother asking where you can ship it back. Everything is non-refundable. Even the money._

 

She grins and puts her phone away.

Josephine has a wicked gleam in her eye. “Does this mean I get to take you shopping?”

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Thank you_

_Attached are some pictures of me kicking Krem’s ass in a snowball fight. I’m the one in the new, awesome coat. Krem is the one on the ground crying “uncle.” Just in case you got confused._

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

As the weather improves, Ellana’s patience with Dr. Roderick steadily deteriorates. The first few weeks of Comparative Religions was a refresher course of the history of the Chantry and how it spread across Thedas, as if the 85% of Andrastian human students didn’t already know. She bore through this with patience that often ended in gritted teeth and bitten off questions.

The “comparative” part of this class came from analyzing how the Chantry was far superior to any and all religions it replaced. He spoke very little of any other religion in Thedas, both ancient and current, and he never talked about other religion’s attitudes towards the Chantry.

Ellana initially fought against this by asking pointed questions about the other religions, which Roderick would coldly shut down or twist around so he could speak more about Andraste. But after she asked for a rough estimate on how many people the Chantry killed into their attempts to hijack other culture’s religions, he stopped calling on her entirely.

So Ellana took her frustrations to her first major assignment and wrote eight pages comparing Andraste to Mythal and how the mythology of the elven goddess might have inspired the legend of Andraste.

The paper came back with a “D” and a note scribbled on the back of her tiny works cited page that she did not have sufficient sources on her Dalish research.

“Insufficient sources!” she shouted, slamming the paper on the table between her and Krem. “I _am_ a godsdamn source. How the fuck do I cite _myself_?”

“It’s bullshit,” Krem agrees. “Why don’t you drop out? You still have two weeks before mid-terms.”

“And give that bastard the satisfaction of never having to deal with me?” Ellana says. “Not a chance.”

She studies for hours for that stupid midterm, burying herself in books about Andraste, annoying Cassandra with questions about finer points in their beliefs and she walks out of that test with twenty minutes to spare and a spring in her step.

She expects him to fume at every right answer, scribble an A and toss it on her desk next week without so much as another glance in direction. She knows she won’t get any acknowledgement.

What she doesn’t expect is to be held back after class with her test clutched in his hand, ungraded, and an accusation of cheating.

“What?” Ellana asks, blindsided.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Roderick says, “but you must have cheated somehow. There’s no way someone like you would have gotten such a high score.”

“By studying? And what do you mean, someone like me?” Ellana demands.

“You’re Dalish! Your people have completely rejected everything about the Chantry for hundreds of years. And yet you make an A on a test that discusses the finer, more subtle points on the Chant of Light? What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

Ellana can only stare at him. Fury churns in her gut, creeps up her neck and inflames her ears but it has nowhere to go. If Roderick was some jackass classmate she could deck him, or scream at him, or viciously break down for him all the ways he sucks.

But he’s not. He’s a tenured, well-respected professor. He has power and control over her grade and subsequent GPA. He could even get her expelled.

“I let your first paper slide even though you clearly employed someone’s help in writing it, but I will not accept cheating on my tests!”

“I wrote that paper myself,” Ellana cries. “I studied my ass off for your test. I researched. I prepared! Why is it so hard for you to believe I did it myself?”

“Don’t you lose your temper with me, girl, just because you got caught. You’re getting a zero and I’m reporting you to the Dean.”

Shaking, Ellana leaves before she does or says anything seriously stupid. And she makes a bee-line straight for Dorian’s office. It’s empty, he’s probably teaching one of his classes, so Ellana sits down on the floor beside his office and tries to regain some of her composure.

“Look at that, someone’s dropped another stray in front of my office,” says Dorian a while later. “I keep telling them to take you all to the shelter, but no one listens.”

Ellana leaps to her feet. “I need to talk to you.”

Dorian looks closely at her face and then quickly unlocks his door and ushers her inside.

“What happened? Did you punch someone again?”

“Can I can get expelled for cheating?” she asks.

Just thinking about it again makes her stomach roil and she sinks into a chair. Oh gods, what would Fen’Harel think if she got kicked out for cheating? Would he make her repay back all the money he’s spent?

“You could,” Dorian says slowly. “Why are you asking?”

“I got an A on my midterm and my professor thinks I cheated.”

She explains the situation that’s been brewing between her and Roderick all semester, including her grade and his comments about her first paper.

“What a racist shit!” Dorian exclaims. “It’s clear he doesn’t think a Dalish student could accomplish much. That’s why he doubts your abilities.”

“He’s going to get me expelled,” Ellana says, a lump forming in her throat.

“No, he’s not, he doesn’t have proof.” It’s almost reassuring how dismissive Dorian sounds at the idea. “You said he was going to the Dean? You should beat him to it.”

“You want me to go to the Dean? Is that even allowed?”

“Of course it’s allowed! The Dean of Humanities is Dr. Giselle. I’ll shoot her an email and get you an appointment.”

 

Dr. Giselle used to be a Reverend Mother in the Chantry before quitting and pursuing her doctorate. That information alone is enough to intimidate the hell out of Ellana. She might be just as bad if not worse than Dr. Roderick. Fear keeps Ellana hovering at the woman’s door, binder clutched in sweaty hands.

Not having met any actual Chantry mothers, Ellana expects some grizzled old hag, with pinched expressions and no tolerance for anything.

Instead Dr. Giselle stands tall and beautiful, with dark skin and a complexion that has barely aged her beyond a few crow’s feet.

“Ms. Lavellan, do come in,” she says, swing the door to her office wide. Inside are shelves and shelves of books, dark red and gold curtains, and a huge mahogany desk.

Her accent is lightly Orlesian and soothes like a cup of hot tea and honey.

“Have a seat,” she says, and Ellana sinks into one of the cushioned chairs. Dr. Giselle sits on the other side of her desk and puts on a pair of small-framed reading glasses before studying her computer.

“The accusations stand as thus,” she begins. “That you had someone edit or rewrite your paper for you and that you cheated – somehow – on Dr. Roderick’s midterm test. Remind me, please, what class this is?”

Ellana swallows, her mouth dry. “Comparative Religions, Ma’am.”

Dr. Giselle purses her lips into a thin line. “I thought so. Forgive me for asking, but your tattoos. Are you Dalish?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“You must have worked very hard to leave home and come to Skyhold. It’s impressive and commendable.”

Her words contain no trace of the scorn or thinly veiled suspicion of Dr. Roderick. Ellana bows her head.

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate that.”

“Do you have the copy of your paper that I asked you to bring?”

“Yes.” Ellana fishes it out of her binder and hands it to Giselle.

The woman takes a few moments to scan the first couple of pages while Ellana sits and watches, feeling more nervous than she ever had in her entire fucking life.

“Your thesis is fascinating and well researched,” she announces several agonizing moments later. “I admit, we don’t often get opportunities to hear the Dalish point of view of the Chantry. It’s also very well written for a Freshman, though I don’t doubt that this is your own work. Even so, Skyhold offers several tutors for students to improve their writing, so it’s not out of line to have another read over and edit your work, so long as your ideas are you own. Yet you received a D. Did he explain why?”

“He said I didn’t cite enough sources,” Ellana explains. “But I was drawing on my personal experience with my religion and I didn’t know I needed to cite that.”

“Hmmm.” A note of disapproval colors her tone and Ellana hasn’t prayed to the Creators in a _very_ long time, but she is doing it now. “Did he explain how he knew you cheated on your midterm?”

Ellana shakes her head. “No, Ma’am. He just said he knew I did somehow.”

“I see,” says Dr. Giselle tersely. “I think I know what happened here, Ms. Lavellan. I will confer with Dr. Roderick for his side of things, but I have reached my conclusion.”

The bottom of Ellana’s stomach drops out and her fear must have shown on her face because Dr. Giselle smiles at her.

“It’s clear that you’re a hard worker and you value your academics, on top of what was revealed to me in Dr. Pavus’s glowing recommendation of his experience with you as his student. I will deal with Dr. Roderick and he will trouble you no further with these kinds of accusations.”

“Thank you so much,” Ellana says, heaving an inward sigh of relief.

Dr. Giselle escorts her out with a smile and a warm pat on the back, keeping Ellana’s paper for her meeting with Roderick.

 

True to her word, Roderick backs off. Her midterm grade goes in as an A, and he drops the accusations of cheating as if they’d never happened. They come to an unspoken arrangement of mutually ignoring each other’s presence, which suits Ellana just fine.

Next semester, someone else is teaching Comparative Religions.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elu'melana: literally "winter secret" a word I pieced together from the amazing, wonderful Project Elvhen Lexicon by FenxShiral. Elu'melana is a modern Dalish holiday I made up centered around Dirthamen. During Elu'melana, the Dalish gather around a large bonfire and offer secrets to Dirthamen by writing them on slips of paper and feeding them into the fire. 
> 
> I enjoyed writing about those freezing dorms as some sort of wish fulfillment. It's so so so hot here and HUMID. I am Josephine. I hate everything. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, kudos, and commented on this fic! I will reply to all your comments in the next couple days or so. Reading them makes my day!
> 
> Sorry for the slow update! It took a while for me to send it to my beta reader. :)


	4. Freshman Year 2nd Semester Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long way, everyone! I'm a teacher, so when school starts up my life and free time disappear. I will work harder on finding more time to write and have the next update sooner! Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me so far. <3
> 
> *Edit: For some reason the last little bit of the chapter was cut off when I posted it! It's fixed now, so please be sure to read it. It wasn't supposed to leave off on a cliffhanger!

 

 

 

Right before Spring Break, Dorian hauls her into his office.

“Biscuit?” he says, holding out a tin of chocolate chip cookies. They look suspiciously homemade. She didn’t peg Dorian as a baker.

“Am I in trouble?” she asks, throwing her memories of the past two weeks up for review. But ever since Dr. Giselle, her classes have gone smoothly, so that can’t be it.

“I admit I’m a little concerned about you,” he says. “About your major, more specifically.”

“ . . . What about it?”

“The fact that you don’t _have_ one. I understand completely how unfair it is to ask people barely out of childhood to decide on the rest of their life, but the fact of the matter is that if you don’t pick a formal major for next year you are going to fall behind. I don’t know how your scholarship works or how many semesters it lasts, but you can’t dither around in university forever trying to find yourself.”

Ellana feels like someone had kicked her in the gut. Abelas had gone over the terms and conditions with her but that was almost a year ago and she couldn’t remember the specifics about her degree, just that she could get one. Even if Fen’Harel had offered indefinite college support, the thought of taking advantage of so much money makes her stomach clench. Dorian is right – she needs to get her degree and start becoming financially independent as soon as possible.

“Do you have anything in mind?” he asks, tone gentler than earlier.

“Um –“ She reaches around for something, _anything,_ but her brain has stalled, like a toy with dead batteries. Cheeks burning, she lowers her head.

“I was afraid of that. Think it over during the break. Freshman don’t register for classes until the week before finals. I expect an answer by then. You could stay undecided for another year, but I won’t let you do that to yourself. You’re too bright with too much potential. You remind me of _me.”_

“There is no higher compliment,” she says with a bit of an eyeroll. “But . . . thanks for looking out for me.”

Dorian just waves his hand. “Have another biscuit and think nothing of it. Lots of students are where you’re at. Some of them change majors every semester. You could be a lot worse.”

It doesn’t feel that way, however. The shame sits heavy in her, haunting her over break. Josie jetsets for Antiva just two hours after her last class, but most of the student body stays behind. As Ellana quickly learns, Spring Break is really code for “hurry up and finish these six papers all due the week after break.” It’s essentially one long, continuous study session.

Except for people like Josephine, who completes all of her homework assignments ahead of time.

In between study dates with her friends on the quad and pool matches with Cassandra and Varric, Ellana spends the rest of her break holed up in the library with the course catalog.

The problem isn’t that none of the majors interest her.

It’s that almost _all_ of them do.

She’s discovered a near voracious appetite for anything unknown to her, and right now the possibilities for herself feel limitless. To resign herself to just _one_ aspect of something feels so restrictive. But Dorian is right. It would be wrong to take advantage of Fen’Harel’s kindness so she can play at the university for forever.

She makes a list of all the majors that give her the most interest

  1. Ancient Elven Literature/Pre-Chantry literature
  2. History – Pre-Andraste and Post-Andrastre
  3. Sociology
  4. Art History (Elvhen, Dwarven)
  5. Creative Writing and Publishing (Creators help her but she does enjoy Varric’s assignments)
  6. Archeology



The list goes on for half a page. She then cross researches each major with an annual salary and job prospects.

It does not look good. Ellana groans and lays her head on the desk, fighting the urge to cry. She did not move out of the Dales and secure some kind of miracle scholarship just so she could get a degree that kept her in just as much poverty as she lived in before university.

“Are you alright?”

A warm voice sounds in front of her. Ellana lifts her head up to see the librarian setting a cup of tea on the desk. Her white hair is pulled back away from her face, which is lightly lined and unbearably kind.

“You’re always in here, working hard,” the woman continues. “You’re too young to look so stressed.”

“I need to pick a major,” says Ellana, “but everything I’m interested in is not going to pay well or have any job openings when I graduate.”

The librarian cocks her head to the side. “What kind of things are you interested in?”

Ellana shows her the list. The librarian’s eyes scan the list quickly.

“You have a wide range of interests,” the librarian says approvingly. “Perhaps things are not so dire. Most of these could be a pursued as a hobby, which could then be financed by a degree with security even if it’s not in something you love.”

“That’s true,” says Ellana slowly. “That’s very helpful, thank you.”

She flips open the catalog again, scanning in the other sections.

“That’s my job,” says the librarian. “I will leave you to continue the search. My name is Wynne if you have any more questions.”

Ellana thanks her again and starts circling potential majors.

 

 

“Good Maker, what _are these_?”

The moan coming out of Josephine’s mouth is borderline obscene as she finishes off the cookie in one bite.

Krem shrugs, and the faint blush on his cheeks doesn’t escape Ellana’s attention. “I don’t know, Coach made them.”

Ellana grins at him. “Your coach bakes you cookies for a study session? You might as well give up the jig and start calling him Dad.”

“Shut up, they’re leftover from my birthday.”

“He gave you _birthday cookies_?”

“I don’t know why you’re making this such a big deal. Your weird gay uncle buys you food all the time.”

“That’s not --!” Ellana stops and thinks. “No, that’s true. Dorian spoils me rotten.”

She snags one of the cookies and takes a bite. No wonder Josephine moaned in public – Coach Bull is a baking _god_. But they also taste familiar in a way she can’t place.

“Hey, can you ask your dad to make me some? My birthday’s coming up.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

A couple weeks later Ellana, Krem, and Cassandra browse through the used bookstore in town. Cassandra loudly proclaims that she is heading towards the religious section, but Ellana sees her duck into the romance aisle when she thinks no one is looking. Meanwhile, Krem is on a desperate search for the next book in his favorite fantasy series.

“You know we can just find it online and order it,” she tells him as he frantically scans the shelves.

“I stayed up till three in the morning last night reading the last one, and if I have to wait for five-day shipping after that fucking cliffhanger, I _will_ die.”

Ellana rolls her eyes. “This is why you wait until the entire series is out before you start reading,” she mutters. “Come on, I think there was a display of them over there.”

Something familiar catches her eye as they pass the Technology aisle. As a reflex Ellana stops and turns her head to see Coach Bull and Dorian making out like teenagers by some coding manuals. She freezes so suddenly that Krem nearly runs into her. To busy moaning against each other’s lips, neither Coach Bull nor Dorian notice Krem and Ellana staring open mouthed at them. Then Coach Bull’s hand wanders down from Dorian’s shoulder to his belt buckle and that’s when Krem hauls Ellana away by the back of her shirt into a corner two aisles over.

“Oh my God,” he hisses. “I’ve heard that it’s traumatic to walk in on your parents but I’ve never had to experience that for myself!”

“Are we going to be step cousins now?”

“How long do you think we should wait?” he asks. “We can _not_ let them see us.”

Ellana shrugs. “They’re just kissing, right? You don’t think they would try to . . . Not in _public_ , right?”

Krem’s eyes get wide. “We need to grab Cass and get out of here.”

They run into Cass going the long way around to the Romance section. Judging from the bright red flush on her face and outrage in her eyes, they are too late to save her.

“Did you _see—"_ she splutters before Krem shushes her.

“Let’s get out of here. We’ll come back tomorrow,” he says.

“I can’t _unsee_ that,” Cass cries as they drag her out of the store. “This is a public bookstore, not some back alley behind a bar!”

She carries on about propriety and romance all the way back to campus while Krem secretly films her with his phone.

“This is going to make us famous on the internet,” he whispers to Ellana.

“If she doesn’t find out and kill us first.”

 

Krem ends up ordering the book online and shells out the exorbitant fee for one-day shipping.

“I don’t know if I can set foot in that store for a while,” Krem says. “We don’t know how often they bone in there, and I don’t want the flashbacks.”

“Understandable.”

It’s a warm, breezy day (finals only a month away), so Krem and Ellana are laying on her comforter in the quad, the leaves of a massive oak swaying above them. Krem has his beloved next volume and Ellana re-reading her notes for Sten’s upcoming quiz.

“Kremsicle!”

The tell-tale shadow of Coach Bull appears, and Ellana shifts slightly to the left so he’s blocking out the glare on her notebook paper.

“There’s no practice tonight,” Coach Bull informs them.

Krem raises his eyebrow. “You know we’ve got a game next week.”

Coach Bull waves his hand. “It’s U of O. Everyone knows they’re a bunch of sissies. Something came up that I got to take care of.”

Ellana catches Krem’s eye and gives him the barest hint of a smirk.

“Alright, Coach. See you tomorrow, then.”

“And say hello to Dorian for me,” Ellana calls out as Coach Bull turns to leave.

“Will do.” He stops and looks over his shoulder “I mean, if I see him around,” he adds with a forced casualty that does not fool her. “I’ve got some errands to run, I don’t expect to run into him.”

“I hear he likes to hang out in bookstores,” says Ellana, nonchalantly flipping through her notes. “If you’re looking for him.”

She looks up to his stone-faced expression and gives him a breezy smile.

 

 _To:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_From:e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_So Coach Bull and Dorian are totally hooking up. Krem and I busted them making out at the Bookwyrm the other day, but there’s been other hints now that I know to look for them. Like the time Dorian wasn’t in his office during office hours and I found him walking out of the basement of the Student Union, where the gym is. He told me he went on a latte run, but the coffee shop’s on the second floor. Also the cookies he gave me one time tasted exactly like the cookies Coach Bull made for Krem._

_I don’t know why they’re trying to keep it a secret. I mean, neither one of them really give two fucks about being professional, and if Dorian doesn’t ping someone’s gaydar within five minutes, then that person doesn’t_ have _one. It’s also not like any of us wouldn’t be wildly happy for them._

_Krem thinks Coach Bull has some secret arranged wife back in Seheron._

_I just think they like the taboo vibe of pretending it’s a secret, arranging meetings like they’re undercover spies. Even though they’re not that good at it because Krem and I busted them at least three times without their knowledge. Apparently they are hooking up around campus and downtown like it’s some kind of bingo card._

_It’s made life for the Chargers a little more lucrative as they set up a betting pool with Varric on how long it will take for Dorian and Bull to be outed by a coworker or where they’ll hook up with next. So far Krem’s made about fifty bucks._

_Don’t worry, I didn’t put in more than five sovereigns in the betting pool, but I couldn’t resist the one time, especially since I had insider information with Dorian._

_Finals are coming up in a couple of weeks. I was going to ask if it was okay to fly me out to the Dales for the summer? If not, I can catch a ride or take the bus, but I would very much like to visit my clan. I haven’t seen anyone in three years._

_Not that much will have changed since then._

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

 

She feels a little guilty asking for a plane ticket, even though he offered to pay for one over winter break. But browsing around for one in the library shocked her. Five hundred sovereigns for a _one-way ticket_? It’s even more of a bullshit scam than college textbooks! Even though Fen’Harel seems to be swimming in money, judging from the tuition bills he pays without a bat of an eyelash, it still feels wrong. A trip to the Dales has nothing to do with school or living expenses.

But at the same time, she can’t help but grasp at the first opportunity to go home in three years. Minimum wage jobs generally do not allow extended vacations even if she could afford the bus ticket down and didn’t mind bailing on Alistair for the rent.

The ticket Fen’Harel sends her is first class. Ellana calls Istie the second it appears in the mail.

“I sure hope you haven’t rented out my room,” she says in lieu of hello. “Because I’m coming home.”

“Oh, _ghilan_ ,” Istie gasps. “That’s _wonderful_ news! I will have to kick Aenor out of your room, but he should be understanding of the circumstances.”

Ellana learned how to lie with a straight face from Istie, who could say the most outrageous comments with the most deadpan delivery and no one would challenge it because of her Keeper status. Even now Ellana isn’t sure if Istie actually let her room out to the clan’s resident moonshine maker, who sleeps in the forest next to his vats more than inside his own cabin.

“Make sure you air that room out a few days before I get there,” Ellana says, playing along to call her bluff.

“Oh, Aenor knows he isn’t allowed to stay in your room without regular baths. We have an agreement.”

Ellana almost asks if her _maela_ is serious. Everyone knows Aenor’s “house” is a shack he built himself deep in the forest with no running water or electricity and that Istie has been trying to get him to upgrade it for years. It wouldn’t be a surprise if she just finally forced Aenor to move in with her under the guise of needing help with repairs. Istie takes her Keeper duties seriously, even if her position is mostly ceremonial now.

“Well good for him. I bet he looks like a whole new elf. I fly in the twenty-fifth of Bloomingtide.  I should get to Scottsdale airport by four fifteen and take the bus.”

“Nonsense. I will pick you up.”

Ellana’s eyebrows jumped up. “It’s a three-hour drive. You think the truck will make it that far?”

“ _Falon_ and I do not appreciate your lack of faith. We will be there. You should go and study. I want to see your report card when you get here, and it had better be immaculate.”

“Yes, Ma’am. You won’t be disappointed. And tell Dany and Mihris that I’ll see them soon and I miss them.”

There’s a strange moment of silence on Istie’s end. Did Ellana cut out? Reception is terrible out in the Dales.

“Of course I will. _Nuvenan na amahn.”_

Ellana smiles into the phone.  “Soon I will be.”

 

When registration rolls around, Ellana signs up for Dorian’s first slot.

“Well, darling, what have you decided?” he asks, offering her an oatmeal cookie.

Judging from the way it melts in her mouth and the moan she has to hold back, it’s a Coach Bull cookie. Dorian must be really good at sex if he keeps getting these.

“No,” he interrupts. “Let me guess . . . history of some sort. Art History? You keep going back to Dr. Sten even though you’ve completed your fine art requirement.”

“I keep going back to Sten because he expects me to and I want to keep all my limbs,” Ellana says. “Actually, I’m going to major in Computer Science.”

Dorian stares at her for a moment before bursting out into laughter. “That was good. You actually had me there for a moment. Your poker face is flawless.”

“I’m serious. I want to go into Computer Science.”

His perfect eyebrows jump. “What on _earth_ possessed you to pick that?”

“It’s one of the fastest job markets in Thedas,” she points out.

“Forgive me, but I had you pegged as a Humanities girl,” he says, frowning. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

Not in the slightest, actually, which Dorian’s keen eyes pick up on. He leans forward in his chair, his gaze deeply serious.

“Ellana, we both know you have no interest in coding. It’s difficult and rigorous, and I think you would be better off picking something you actually like.”

“Are you saying I can’t handle it?”

“I’m saying you’re going to be miserable!” Dorian leans back into his chair, fingers picking at the tip of his mustache. “University is _hard_ , Skyhold especially so. If you’re not pursuing something you love, you’re not going to make it. I’ve seen it happen many times before, and I don’t want to watch you burn out because you’ve invested all your energy into something that makes you unhappy. You have too much potential for that.”

Ellana bites at her lip, equally frustrated. Dorian is totally right and she can’t even deny it. “It’s true, I’m not in love with computer science. I’ve never even considered it before. But there aren’t any jobs in the humanities – I looked. And I didn’t take the opportunity to come here just so I could go right back to being a starving history nerd once I leave. I had enough of that in Orlais.”

“A degree from Skyhold will open many doors for you,” Dorian says, his voice softer than before. “Even in Humanities. You don’t have to give up.”

“I’m not giving up. All the subjects I love are things I can easily pursue in my free time if I have a high-paying, secure job. I’m done being poor,” she adds, a little more fiercely than she intended.

Dorian looks at her for a long moment and then sighs and turns back to his computer.

“Well buckle up, darling, because I’m placing you in my Calculus class. You’ve got some math to catch up on.”

He also says nothing when she adds Modern Ferelden Lit and Intro to Demography to her course load because Dorian is wonderful like that.

 

“So, I have proposition for you,” Josephine says one evening on the way back from the cafeteria.

The sun still clings to the horizon, even though it’s after eight in the evening. Finals are two weeks away.

“Josie!” says Ellana in a scandalized tone. “I’m flattered, but we’re roommates. It might get complicated.”

“You’re ridiculous.” A faint blush blooms on her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant. My Sociology professor just assigned us our final project. She wants us to research or interview someone from a commonly misunderstood culture. I thought, if you were comfortable, you could share your experiences about being Dalish.”

“You want to interview me?”

“Only if you want to,” Josephine stressed. “I know you’ve been pretty tight lipped about your culture, so I understand if you didn’t feel up to it. But I would rather talk to someone from Dalish culture than research the internet about it.”

Fen’Harel only knows what kind of horrifying misinformation would be found there. “I don’t mind. But I’m just warning you, Dalish culture isn’t particularly kind to humans.”

“I’m not going to be offended by the truth of someone’s experiences.”

Well. Ellana should have expected no less.

“I’m guessing, since it was just assigned and not due for several weeks, that you would want to start tonight?”

Josie beams. “Tonight is perfect.”

They settle on Josie’s bed, her tablet balanced on a pillow in her lap, stylus held like a fountain pen as she stares expectantly at Ellana, who sits with her back braced against the wall.

“I’m assuming you have questions for me,” Ellana says.

“I do, but I don’t have to stick to them, if you want to talk about something else.”

“I don’t care. Hit me with one.”

“Alright.” Josie hums as she skims a sheet of paper from her Sociology binder. “You said you lived with your Keeper after your parents died. What exactly is a Keeper? What role do they play?”

Ellana thinks for a moment. “A Keeper is sort of like an unofficial mayor. They’re the head of the clan. It’s the Keeper’s job to know and understand all our history and traditions and keep them alive within the clan. Now they’re just kind of a Master of Ceremonies for all our holidays and they give out advice and deal with inter-clan conflicts.

“Back when the Dalish were still nomadic, the Keeper decided when and where we moved, who we traded with outside the clan, and settled all disputes within the clan. Back in the _old_ , old days, the Keeper was supposed to protect the clan from Fen’Harel.”

Josephine raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Who is Fen’Harel?”

“He’s the Dalish boogey man, essentially. According to the old Dalish faith, Fen’Harel was a trickster god that locked our Creators away so they could no longer care for the elves. He represents rebellion and betrayal, and is generally the scapegoat for anything bad that happens ever. No one really believes in him anymore, and historical research hints that he might have actually been an ancient king that tried to ban worship of the Creators for some reason. But so much of our history has been wiped out that it’s hard to know anything for certain. That’s why we have so many myths.”

With Josephine’s guidance and curiosity, Ellana patches together the details of her culture and history. She explains how the Dalish had gone from nomadic tribes of families to sedentary farming villages. Even though each village still calls itself a clan, not everyone is related (though the smaller the village, the more often that occurs).

“The Dalish have a reputation for isolation that comes across, for humans, as arrogance. What is your perspective on it?”

“Honestly, we just want to be left the hell alone.” By now they’ve broken out the snacks and Ellana grabs a handful of cheese popcorn and continues. “The Dalish have been so fucked over by the Chantry for so long that when we had the chance to be in our own little section where there weren’t any humans, we jumped on it.”

“You’re talking about the Treaty of Halamshiral? Where the Dalish were gifted with the Dales on the condition that they disbanded the Emerald Knights, ceased all military actions, and allow themselves to be ruled under Orlesian jurisdiction?”

“Um, yeah.”

Of course Josephine knows about the Treaty of Halamshiral. That shouldn’t surprise Ellana, but it does. So far in her experience, nobody really knows or cares about the treaty. Actually, nobody really knows or cares about Dalish history or culture. Ellana’s just part of those wild elven hillbillies in the south who will shoot you if you put so much as a toenail on their property.

“Are any Dalish upset over the Treaty? I know it came at a great loss of life.”

Ellana thinks back to some of the older elves, and the drunken human trash talk that inevitably crops up during bonfire parties. “Some elves can get bitter about it. They think the Emerald Knights could have won back more territory or taken down Orlais if we had just continued. But most of us are happy. We got lucky, because the Dales are good fertile land and it apparently looks closer to Arlanthan’s wilderness than Ferelden or the Marches. It provides us everything we need, and self-reliance is one of the most highly valued traits in our culture.”

Josephine takes a long moment to scribble out more notes before looking up again.

“So, the Dalish seek isolation for peace and the pride of living off the land?”

“Essentially. We want to depend on humans as little as possible, so we provide everything ourselves, even our own electricity. Part of it is a point of pride. Another part is that we just don’t trust the Treaty to last. Looking back at our history, it’s only a matter of time before the humans find another excuse to start a war, and this time we don’t have an official military.”

Josephine looks concerned. “You really think the relations are that bad between the two?”

Ellana shakes her head. “I haven’t experienced anything violent or horrifying. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. It’s hard for Dalish to give humans the benefit of the doubt after everything that’s happened.”

Her friend goes quiet for a moment, processing. She types something out, biting her lip, before continuing.

“What did you do for fun?” Josephine asks, the subject changing swiftly to something innocent. “It doesn’t sound as though there was much . . . city entertainment,” she finishes delicately.

“Oh no. I didn’t see a movie in a theater until my last year of high school, and even then, Dany, Mihris, and I had to take a two hour road trip outside of the Dales in order to find one.”

Josephine looks horrified, and Ellana grins. “There’s all kinds of stuff to do in the woods. Hide and seek in the dark, scavenger hunts, exploring caves, finding the perfect place for a secret hide out. For a whole month I pretended to be a spy and I recorded all the activity I observed in the woods, including the secret place where they made moonshine.” She chuckles fondly. “I got in a lot of trouble for that.”

“Besides,” she continues, “my people will use any excuse to throw a party. We have a holiday for all nine Creators, plus a New Year’s holiday, a holiday for the Emerald Knights, and a holiday celebrating all the gods at once just as a general fuck you to the Chantry. Not to mention that anyone’s birthday is an excuse to throw a bonfire and drink moonshine and roast just about anything we can get our hands on.”

“That sounds like Antivan family reunions,” says Josephine, smiling. “Though we drink homemade wine.”

When Josephine runs out of questions, it’s nearly one in the morning. Ellana feels disappointed; she could easily go on all night. It’s refreshing to explain her culture to a curious and sensitive audience. No one has ever asked her about her culture. They might be too afraid of saying something insensitive or perhaps they just don’t care.

Ellana gets that vibe from her friends; it’s not that they don’t like her culture, it’s that they don’t notice it or think about it. And why would they? The only thing that sets Ellana apart from them are her tattoos. It’s not like they’ve ever seen her dance to ward off Fen’Harel at New Year’s or hand carve a bow or decorate a Halla’s horns. And they never will, because Ellana has become her Keeper’s worst nightmare and assimilated almost completely into human culture.

Not that she had much choice; she needed to blend in, especially in her first few months with no friends and no one she could trust. Though now she does feel safe enough to practice her traditions, Ellana still doesn’t bother. It’s hard to keep up Dalish traditions when you’re the only Dalish around. Hard and lonely and it’s not worth the homesickness that accompanies it.

 

There’s a knock on the door as Ellana packs her suitcase. Josephine was going to show her how to roll her shirts so they don’t wrinkle, but she stepped out and hadn’t returned for the last hour or so.

“Come in,” she says, back turned to the door. “I’m just finishing up.”

Heavy footsteps creep up behind her and then Ellana finds herself hoisted up and slung over a broad shoulder. She hollers and slams her foot into the solid mass that has scooped her up.

Coach Bull grunts, nearly dropping her. “Chill out, Ellana. It’s just me.”

“ _Coach_? What the hell are you doing?”

She should have recognized the smell of his fancy Qunari cologne, which he practically bathes in since he started . . . whatever the fuck he has with Dorian.

“It’s just a friendly kidnapping. Hang in for the ride. I promise you won’t regret it.”

He walks out of the dorm with her slung over him like a sack of footballs and out to his motorcycle.

“Hold on tight,” he says, handing her a helmet. It’s smaller than his, without holes for horns, and smells of Dorian’s pomade.

Gods, they really are the worst kept secret in Skyhold.

She can’t reach around his middle to hold on, so she grips her fingers around his belt and prepares to hold on for dear life. It’s not unlike riding a Northern Hart at breakneck speed, though Coach Bull follows all the traffic laws and doesn’t try to do a wheelie.

He finally skids to a stop in front of the college bar downtown where Ellana got shit-faced after first semester finals and drunk emailed Fen’Harel. Ellana takes off the helmet and runs her fingers through the ratty, windswept mess of her hair.

“Coach, I’m flattered you want to go out with me, but I don’t think Dorian shares.”

Coach Bull laughs. “You have no idea what kind of things Dorian is into.”

“And it’s going to stay that way.” Ellana fights off a shudder at the memory of the bookstore incident.

“Relax. We just wanted to catch you before you left.”

“We?”

He leads her into the bar and through to the backroom where the pool tables were kept. Party streamers hung from the rafters, along with balloons and a “Happy Birthday” banner. Several plates of wings and pitchers of beer rest on a table littered with glitter confetti and wrapped gifts.

Ellana’s mouth falls open.

“Surprise!” Josephine cried, leaping up from behind the pool table. A few seconds later, everyone else popped up.

“I told you on the count of three!” Varric says to Josephine.

“Sorry! I just got too excited.”

“Happy Birthday, darling,” Dorian says, coming around the table to hug her. “I hope Bull didn’t rough you up too badly.”

“I think he saves that for you,” she whispers in his ear and he pinches her arm before letting her go.

“I know your birthday is in the summer, so we decided to celebrate before you left.”

“And how did you know that, exactly?” she asks.

Dorian smirks at her. “Your files, of course.”

She looks at all the decorations and the small cake hiding behind the wings and the presents and almost tears up. Thank the gods, Varric approaches her with a glass of beer before she can embarrass herself.

“Dorian and I challenge you to a rematch at pool. And this time, Cassie isn’t going to take the first shot,” he adds, glaring at her over his shoulder.

Cassandra shrugs, looking downright dangerous in fingerless leather gloves. “If you feel you need the handicap of the first shot, I have no issues letting you take it.”

“Oh- _ho!_ We’ll see who needs a handicap after this match,” Varric cries, eyes twinkling.

Ellana downs half the glass. “Krem, hold my beer! Let’s do this.”

 

They stay at the bar until nearly two in the morning. Ellana’s head spins from the mixture of too much beer and too many wings and too much sugar from the chocolate-mocha cake. They all take the tram back up the mountain, even Varric (though Dorian rides off with Iron Bull on the motorcycle to gods only know where). Josephine has been reduced to a giggly mess that Krem carries like a bride from the tram station to their dorm and deposits in her bed.

He gives her a tight hug. “Happy early Birthday, Ellana.”

“Thanks,” she says, squeezing him back. “And thank you for the pens. Those will probably last me until graduation.”

Krem had gifted her a pack of twenty pens from her favorite brand, in all shades of the rainbow, perfect for color coding her notes.

“I hope you have a good time back home,” he says, smiling.  “I’ll see you when you get back.”

He leaves with a wave and Ellana watches him down the hallway before she shuts the door. Josephine sighs happily, staring up at the ceiling, her eyeliner smudged under her eyes.

“I love birthdays,” she says. “You know, you never –” she hiccups, “—you never said how old you were.”

“I’m twenty-one,” Ellana says, picking up the shirt she had dropped when Iron Bull had grabbed her.

Josephine gasps. “You’re so old! I’m only nineteen!”

“It’s not that big of a difference.”

“You’re a grandmother!” Josephine shouts before dissolving into another fit of giggles.

Ellana rolls her eye and smiles, finishing what little is left of her packing. Josephine’s laughter slowly fades into delicate snores.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Yay it’s another drunk email_

 

_Attached is a picture of me and all my awesome presents. Tonight Coach Bull kidnapped me (literally, I was slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes) and took me to a bar for a surprise birthday party. And since my birthday isn’t for another two months (the 15 th of Solace) I was definitely surprised._

_I drank beer, ate wings, kicked ass at pool (I’ve been practicing with Cassandra) and listened to Krem regale, once again, the Charger’s latest victory._

_I mean, it’s not bonfire with Dalish sweet bread and moonshine, but it was still a damn good party. But don’t’ worry, I’m sober enough to keep my sanity while I’m writing to you._

_I don’t know what the internet situation is going to be like in the Dales, so this might be the last time you hear from me in a while. Thanks again for the tickets. It’s such a relief to finally go home._

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maela -- grandmother
> 
> Nuvenan na amahn -- I miss you. Literally: I wish you were here
> 
> ghilan -- little monster
> 
> All Elvhen words come from the fantastic Fenxshiral's Elvhen dictionary.


	5. Summer After Freshman Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I had no idea this chapter would take this long. I had to scrap the whole thing and re-write it and the past month has been so crazy, I've had maybe an hour to write each week. But it's finally done! The next update should not take near as long. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this so far!

_To:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

 _From:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_Subject: No Subject_

_Look, I know this is last minute and it will probably cost a lot of money and I am really really sorry, but you have got to get me out of here. Like, as soon as possible. Please. You can dock the money from my stipend if you want, I don’t care. I have to leave._

_To:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

 _From:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_Re: No Subject_

_Attached are your confirmation numbers for your tickets. All you need to do is show them to the ticket agent with your identification and they will print them off to you. You leave tomorrow morning._

_Please let me know if I can do anything else for you. It is no trouble._

_Yours,_

_Fen’Harel_

To her shock, Abelas waits for her at the luggage carousel at Val Royeaux International, tapping at his phone and dressed in another immaculate suit. Her suitcase already rests by his feet, looking shabby as hell next to his perfectly shined loafers.

“Ah, Serah Lavellan,” he says when she approaches, glancing up from his phone. “I trust your flight went well.”

Ellana stares at him. “Yes,” she says slowly. “What are you doing here?”

Abelas finishes typing on his phone and slips it into his pocket in one smooth motion. “I am here to escort you to _L'Hôtel de Mavise_. Your benefactor has a room reserved for you until you receive your new room assignment in August.”

“But, that’s, like, two months from now.”

Abelas blinks at her. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

“I can’t stay in one of the most expensive hotels in Val Royeaux for two months.”

“Why not? You’re not paying for it.”

“That’s exactly why not.”

“You have no other living arrangements, so you will have to make your peace with your discomfort,” Abelas says rather shortly, and Ellana kind of wants to punch him.

Instead, she leans down and grabs her suitcase by the handle. “Actually, I’m going to be staying with a friend of mine. He has an apartment on campus.”

She savors that split second of uncertainty and irritation that flashes across Abelas’s face. He recovers quickly, though.

“Then I will escort you back to Skyhold. Do you have any other business to attend to here or shall we go?”

For a brief moment she debates on making another run to the bathroom or maybe grabbing a coffee, just to irritate him. But right now, all Ellana wants is a warm bath and a nap, both of which await her at Varric’s place.

“No, we can go.”

 

A limousine waits for them outside. The driver – an elf – takes her luggage with a pasted-on smile and a lingering gaze on her forehead and deposits it into the trunk. Abelas opens the door for her and allows her to slide in first before climbing in after her and settling on the seat closet to the partition.

The two-hour drive back to Skyhold is long and quiet. Ellana does not have the energy to navigate the minefield of small talk with Abelas, who seems content to work on his laptop and ignore her presence entirely. The luxury of the limousine does not seem to faze him, but Ellana feels immediately uncomfortable. The black leather of the seats stretches taut enough not to leave any wrinkles, even when she sits, and the cushions are stiff and unforgiving. The windows are tinted heavily enough to make the early afternoon look like late evening and the air conditioning blasts her from all angles.

She misses the cracked, faded seats and rumbling engine and rolled down windows of _Falon_ , Istie’s beat up farm truck.

Ellana rolls one window down for a brief moment, intent on getting some fresh air, before Abelas rolls it back up and locks it without even sparing her a glance from his laptop. Swallowing her irritation, she leans her head against the glass and stares as the city slowly melts away into small rural towns, dotted with pine trees and scrubby grass.

 

_When Ellana catches sight of Istie and her beat up, bottle green truck in the airport parking lot, something in her heart clicks into place, a missing piece found. She grips the handle of her suitcase tight and struggles not to run like a child as she approaches the truck. It’s hard to keep composure in the face of the uncharacteristic grin on Istie’s usually reserved features._

_“Oh, Ellana!” Istie opens her arms wide and hugs her. “Look at you!”_

_She pulls back and studies Ellana for a long moment, as if categorizing all the ways Ellana differs from her memory._

_“You cut your hair,” she says, fingering the ends that brush just under Ellana’s collarbone. “And you’ve gotten so pale!”_

_“You stopped dying yours,” Ellana counters. “And Skyhold refuses to hold classes outside.”_

_“Well that’s unfortunate. You’ll have to regain your glow while you’re here. Also, I don’t dye my hair, Ellana. We both know this.”_

_Ellana snorts, remembering very clearly the bottles of herbal dye Istie hides under the sink. Keeping her hair dark was the one vanity Istie allowed herself, but now it’s streaked thickly with white. Still, it only adds more dignity to Istie’s austere beauty, and it’s the only difference Ellana can see. Istie still dresses in worn jeans and flowy, long sleeved tops, and she still wears her husband’s wedding ring on the chain around her neck._

_And she still drives the most worn out, pathetically beat up truck in all the Dales. Ellana tosses her suitcase in the back and climbs in the passenger side. She looks at the cracked leather dashboard and pats it affectionately._

_“How did he do?” she asks as Istie starts him up._

_The sound of the old motor clunking to life alone ignites a hundred memories._

_“_ Falon _did wonderfully. As always.” Istie kisses her fingertips and presses them against the dashboard before backing out of the parking lot. “So, tell me more about your first year and these friends you’ve made.”_

 _Ellana rolls her window down, since_ Falon _was built in the days when air conditioning was considered a ludicrous luxury. The first hit of green, summer air hits her like a drug. She sticks her head out of window like a dog and breathes in so deep that she sneezes and Istie laughs._

_"It doesn't smell like this in the city, does it," she says._

_Ellana shakes her head and takes in another deep breath, tasting the clover and honeysuckle and the tang of the coming rain. Even though Skyhold has a beautiful campus, full of gardens and grass and tall trees, the mountain air smells different. Sharper and cleaner. There are no rotting logs or cicadas. No plant out of place._

_The Dales have a wild smell no place on Thedas can replicate._

_Stories about college life last the entire three-hour journey home. Ellana spares no details, not even about Coach Bull and Dorian’s bookstore tryst, which makes Istie laugh again._

_“It sounds like you have fun,” her Keeper acknowledges, and if she feels sad or jealous about that, it does not show on her beloved, wrinkled face._

_“It is fun,” Ellana says but adds nothing more, not wanting to sound ungrateful for home._

_A thousand memories rush in with the wind, feelings Ellana had buried to keep the homesickness at bay. Now she revels in them, and the feeling of finally being home, of being in a place where she isn’t weird or abnormal or exotic --_

 

“You were only in the Dales for two weeks.”

Ellana jerks out of her thoughts, looking up to find herself under the full force of Abelas’s gaze.

“Um . . . yes?”

Is he asking her a question? The flat tone of his voice makes it impossible to tell for herself.

“You had intended on staying the entire summer. What changed?”

Ellana just stares at him. As if she would confide anything to a sad corporate lawyer robot with no soul.

“What changed for you?” she asks instead. “What made _you_ leave the Dales?”

“ . . . that is personal,” he says stiffly.

“Exactly.”

A silence follows, and Ellana turns her attention back out the window.

“I apologize. I overstepped,” came his quiet reply some moments later.  “My client is concerned about the circumstances behind your sudden departure. He – and I – suspect abuse.”

Ellana takes a deep, calming breath and stills her fingers as they instinctively curl into fists.

“It wasn’t abuse.” It’s an effort to keep her tone even. “They just . . . made it clear I should leave.”

 “ . . . I understand.”

A hint of emotion colors his usual wooden tone, something scarily close to empathy. Ellana glances over at him in surprise, but he has returned his gaze to the laptop, his features as emotive as stone. She probably imagined it.

Though when the limousine pulls up to the parking lot by the main office, an hour later, Abelas shakes her hand.

“I bid you good luck for the new school year, Serah Lavellan,” he says, with a bow to his head. “ _Dar’eth shiral.”_

“I – thanks,” Ellana says, taken aback at his elvhen, the formality of which is usually reserved for those in a much higher station than a broke college student. “ _Tas Dar’eth.”_

With another small bow, Abelas climbs back into the limo.

Varric waits for her in the coffeeshop by the Student Union.

“Well well, look what the cat dragged in,” he says, handing over an iced caramel latte.

Ellana takes it with a grateful smile and chugs it.

“Whoah, easy there, Inquisitor. That’s not fine whiskey. You’re gonna get a headache. You want real whiskey, we’ll go to the Hanged Man.”

“It’s, like, one in the afternoon.”

Varric shrugs. “Hey, when you need a stiff drink, you need a stiff drink.”

“I need a nap.”

“I can deliver that. Come, my place isn’t that far from here.”

 

Varric lives in the top floor of the nicer apartments scattered across campus, a full two floors to himself. Though usually reserved for students, especially the wealthy, senior/junior variety, Varric fits right in, walking past a majestic statue of Skyhold’s mascot made entirely out of beer cans without batting an eyelash. Ellana has to admire how the artist managed to get the wolf’s head up and howling with what looks like paperclips and prayers.

Inside the place is relatively clean, though books are stacked haphazardly on every surface, the couch is worn to optimal squishiness, and pictures of various people hang everywhere. Ellana parks her suitcase by it and sits down. Varric grabs some sheets from a small closet in the hallway by the stairs.

“Come on, spare bedroom is this way,” he says, jerking his head towards the stairs.

The spare bedroom sits right across the hallway from Varric’s room, furnished with a small double bed, a night stand, and five bookcases crammed along every other spare inch of the wall.

Ellana parks her suitcase by the end of the bed. “So is this a library with a bed in it, or a bedroom with a library in it?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Varric says. “Bathroom is across the hall. Spare towels and washcloths are kept under the sink and you can use my fancy shampoo, but be aware that I use the conditioner for my chest hair.”

“You condition your _chest hair?”_

“Of course. Why do you think it’s so touchably soft?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not really a chest hair kind of girl.”

“Don’t worry. By the end of the month you will be.” Varric tosses her a wink and turns to go.

“Varric!” Ellana calls before he can leave. He waits patiently in the doorway. “ . . . Thanks for letting me stay here, especially so last minute.”

He waves her off. “Don’t think anything of it, Ellana. I’m always here for my friends.”

With that he leaves Ellana to her thoughts and the lump that forms unexpectedly in her throat. She lays down over the covers, taking deep breaths, and tries to go to sleep.

 

_The unofficial border between the Dalish lands and the rest of Orlais is stark. The roads turn to gravel, the houses small and coarse, the yards overgrown, the trees thick and tall.  The Dalish prefer to live with nature, not try to conquer it. Rarely are yards mowed down, much less as obsessively as Skyhold. Gardens flourish on their own terms, the opposite of the manicured, prison-like layouts in Orlais._

_Ellana had worried, irrationally, that she wouldn't recognize her own home when she returned. A stupid thought because the only things that change in Wycombe are trees that fall in the summer storms._

_Istie’s house sits nestled in between massive twin oaks, her rose garden an explosion of color off to the right, spilling around the back of the house. It looks like something from a story book, even with the peeling, chipped paint and sagging porch, which still hasn’t been mended in the last three years._

_Best of all, it looks exactly the way she remembers. Perhaps the rose garden has grown. She can't help but to run her fingers over the worn kitchen table where she and Istie shared morning cups of rose hip tea and simple dinners, where she poured over homework or scribbled pictures._

_A couple of her school pictures still hang on the wall, along with sketch portraits of Istie’s parents and sister and the daughter she lost before Ellana was born. Wildflowers from her parents’ funeral bouquet are still pressed and preserved in a frame in the living room. The stairwell still creaks when she goes upstairs to put away her suitcase._

_She prepares herself for a stark room, her decorations packed away, and perhaps the smell of dirt and moonshine (she still can’t tell if Istie was joking about Aenor)._

_Instead, Ellana's room looks as though she had just stepped out the door, save for the picture of her, Dany, and Mihris the day they started high school that she took with her when she moved._

_The only picture of her parents has been moved from the bottom of her dresser drawer to the nightstand, but that's the only change she can discern._

_Ellana hauls her suitcase on top of her bed with a thunk, but no dust blooms in the air. Istie has cleaned and laundered everything, and recently, too. Slowly, she runs her hand over the threads of her quilt, the patches made from old shirts from the clan, including her parents’._

_When she comes back downstairs Istie has two steaming cups of rose hip tea sitting on the table. Suddenly, Ellana has to blink tears from her eyes, but nothing escapes Istie’s notice. She brings Ellana into a hug, the faint smell of roses and clover that always clings to her clothes filling her nose. Ellana buries her face into Istie’s shoulder._

_“Oh, Ellana,” the older woman whispers, stroking Ellana’s hair. “Oh, Da’ghilan. I have missed you so. It's good to have you home.”_

_Not trusting herself to speak, Ellana can only nod._

_Once settled in, Ellana changes into her beat up hiking boots she left in the closet and stops in the kitchen, where Istie slices potatoes and carrots._

_“I’m going to see Dany and Mihris,” she says. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”_

_“They are not here.”_

_Ellana stops, her hand on the door knob. “What do you mean they’re not here?”_

_“They drove up to Boranehn for the weekend. They should be back in time for_ Era'varlise _.”_

_“Did they not know I was coming?”_

_Istie chuckles, though something about it sounds strained. “As if I could keep such a secret from the rest of the clan. Perhaps it slipped their minds.”_

_Ellana leans against the doorway, swallowing thickly against her disappointment. In Orlais, she couldn’t spare much thought for her two best friends, simply because the ache of missing them got too much to handle. Those first few months just the sight of a pair of friends in the mall or at a coffee shop would nearly send her to tears. But as her departure date crept closer and closer, she thought of them more and more. By the time she landed she was wild with impatience to see them._

_Now all her anticipation disappears her in a sudden rush, leaving her feeling rather empty._

_“Can you water my roses, da’len, while I finish up dinner?”_

_“Sure,” Ellana says, grateful for a task to keep her busy._

_Outside the sun sets low in the valley, thick and gold like butter. Long shadows stretch from the trees, and Ellana breathes in deeply the rose-tinted air before fetching the hand beaten water pail from the shed out back. Scratched and scuffed, the flowers her younger self painted years ago still cling to the aluminum. She takes a moment to trace over them with her finger. Then she fills it up from the rusty spigot and gets to work._

_It comes back like muscle memory, the journey from the spigot to the garden, how much water to pour, what the evening sunlight feels on the back of her neck, the slosh of the water as she walks back and forth._

_A task and an evening that has not changed in three years, and Ellana didn’t know how much she needed the familiarity._

_Once she’s done, Ellana restores the pail to its rightful place in the shed and joins Istie for dinner._

_The roasted beef and potatoes makes Ellana’s mouth water almost the second Istie withdraws it from the oven. Oh Creators, she hasn’t had a Dalish cooked meal in so long. (The meager recipes she and Alistair lived off of do not count). Istie winks at her as she fans the steam from the dish._

_“Eat as much as you like,” she says. “It’s just the two of us.”_

_“Really?” Ellana asks, surprised._

_Unexpected guests drop by Istie’s house all the time, asking for advice or passing on gossip or borrowing from her extensive herb garden in the back yard, especially during dinner because they know Istie will feed them. So Ellana doesn’t really believe her when Istie promises a quiet night with no one else to steal any potential leftovers._

_And yet dinner is quiet all the same. The phone doesn’t ring. No one knocks on the door. The only sounds come from the crickets chirping loudly outside, the clicks of spoons on the plates, and Istie’s gentle, probing questions._

_“Have you decided on a major yet?”_

_Her question startles Ellana, who is straining to hear what she thinks might the sound of a truck door shutting. But no crunching footsteps follow, or knock on the door._

_“Yeah, Dorian finally pushed me into deciding. He said it wasn’t wise to waste any more time on classes if they weren’t going towards a degree.”_

_“And?”_

_“Computer science.” She tries to sound confident but it almost comes out a question._

_Istie’s delicate white eyebrows climb up her forehead. “That is . . . unexpected. How did you come to such a decision?”_

_“It’s the fastest growing job market, it’s a skill set that people will always need, and it pays well,” Ellana rattles off, almost like a script. “It’s the kind of career I can have while pursuing my other interests in my free time.”_

_“Well that sounds very practical.” Istie sounds proud and Ellana relaxes. “Though I must admit that it surprises me. I thought you would get a history degree.”_

_“There’re no jobs for a history degree. I don’t see a point in a college degree if it just puts me back into working three jobs for a closet-sized apartment.”_

_“So, you’re planning on staying out of the Dales after you graduate, then?” Istie keeps her voice carefully neutral._

_“I . . . I’m still not sure.”_

_It’s not a decision she wants to agonize over until at least her senior year._

_“That is still far in the future. I would focus my attention on classes for now.”_

_“That’s what I’m thinking.”_

_They eat in companionable silence for a few moments before Istie asks another question._

_“How does your benefactor feel about your major?”_

_Ellana freezes, fork close to her mouth. Typical fucking Istie, waiting until Ellana thinks the conversation is safe again before dropping that bombshell.  “I haven’t told him yet,” she says as nonchalantly as possible._

_“Why not? Doesn’t he request that kind of information?”_

_“I just forgot. It was kind of last minute and then I had the trip here to pack for and moving out of the dorm and stuff. I’ll tell him.”_

_Istie levels her with the flat gaze of disbelief, and Ellana feels an interrogation coming on._

_“You think he will disapprove.”_

_It’s not a question, but a statement of fact and Ellana definitely did not miss Istie’s mind reading fuckery that never allows Ellana privacy for her mistakes._

_“I don’t know,” she finally admits. “He told me I could get any degree I wanted, but I think he was expecting something else and I just don’t want to hear anyone try to talk me out of it, much less the person who has total control over my education. So, I haven’t told him yet.”_

_“But you will?”_

_Ellana sighs. “Yes. I will. Eventually.”_

_“Alright,” Istie says, then returns to her plate._

_Ellana waits for the inevitable disapproval, but Istie remains content to drop the conversation._

_“That’s it? Just alright?”_

_“You’re an adult now. I trust you to do what’s right,” Istie says, simply, and Ellana sits, stunned for a moment._

_After dinner Ellana shoos Istie from the kitchen and cleans up, falling back into the old routine effortlessly. While her hands stay busy, her mind wanders, confused and disappointed._

_It’s not like she expected to be greeted by a parade and a giant banner reading Welcome Home Ellana. She knows a lot of the clan did not agree with her decision to leave, scared that the rest of the world would pounce on her the second she left the border._

_But she expected something. The way this town practically considers gossip its own food group, you would think all kinds of her clanmates would be stopping by just to get a look at her. It’s so rare for anyone to leave the Dales that it’s weird for her arrival to be met with . . . crickets._

 

Varric’s idea of cooking revolves entirely around ordering pizza online and take out on his phone. Though he expects nothing of her in terms of money or chores (he hires a maid twice a month to deep clean the place), Ellana feels she should at least feed herself, so she asks to make use of Varric’s small, lightly stocked kitchen.

“Knock yourself out,” Varric says. “But beware, most of the cookware is just for show. I don’t know how to use any of that shit. Just tell me if I need to get something.”

“I once cooked a frozen pizza one slice at a time in a toaster,” Ellana says. “Your kitchen is fine.”

Of course, Varric becomes increasingly curious about Ellana’s simple, patched together fusion of Dalish and Orlesian dishes until Ellana starts making dinner for two in the evenings. Rather than sprawling out on the couch with various take out containers, Ellana makes them eat at the kitchen island like civilized people.

“I didn’t peg you for the domestic type,” Varric teases.

“It’s how I grew up,” says Ellana shrugging. “And when I lived in Orlais, we didn’t have a table. Alistair and I ate in the living room on the coffee table made of wooden crates. That got old really fast.”

“You know, the more I hear about your years in Orlais, the more it sounds like something out of a novel, one of those old so-called classics about the veracity of the impoverished.”

Ellana rolls her eyes. “There’s nothing romantic about being poor. I don’t know why people keep writing about it. It just sucks.”

“The same reason why people write novels about serial killers. It’s morbid fascination. Besides, it makes rich people feel less bad about being rich if they can read about how poverty has its own happiness.”

“You know a lot of rich people to come to that conclusion?”

Varric grimaces. “Not by choice. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I’ll be the first to admit it. Growing up I was surrounded by jackasses so obsessed with their own wealth they were practically a caricature. It’s a shitty childhood, but it makes for good writing.”

 

Even after three years, Ellana hates grocery stores. They’re always cold and the harsh florescent lights make the produce look sick. Plus, the pre-packaged food is packed with shit that Ellana can’t even pronounce. She might have gotten used to the chemical taste in the food here in all those years eating ramen and apples with Alistair, but once she started eating Istie’s cooking again, Ellana does not look forward to cafeteria food again.

Krem accompanies her this time, dutifully pushing the cart and fetching items from the other side of the store while Ellana picks through produce that either won’t be ripe for another week or will rot in the next two days.

Tarasha would be appalled.

Ellana bites her lip and shoves that thought away, but more spark in her mind.

 

_Market day happens every Saturday, rain or shine, in the large grassy field near the middle of town. Stalls sat in neat, brightly colored rows and sold almost anything you could ever want: produce, furniture, butter, jelly, candy, clothes and jewelry, and decorations for any upcoming holiday. Even Ghehel, the butcher, had coolers full of fish and deer and pheasant._

_Ellana used to joke to Alistair that the market is the Dalish equivalent of a mall, though she found that comparison more depressing than funny once Alistair showed her a real mall._

_Even so, she missed the market. Every so often Val Royeaux would have a craft fair, but it felt stiff and fake in comparison, like children playing house, compared to a Dalish market. And everyone there tried to rip you off, charging outrageous amounts of money for a handcrafted item Ellana could make in her sleep for less than five sovereigns._

_Ellana wakes up early and spends a ridiculous amount of time going through her clothes for the right outfit. She can’t quite remember how she used to dress when she lived here, and her suitcase is full of cheap Orlesian clothes bought from malls and thrift stores, or hand-me-downs from her various friends._

_God, if Dany ever saw her in the designer turquoise tank top from Josephine, Ellana would never hear the end of it._

_Finally, she settled on a grey t-shirt and one of her old jean button-downs before heading downstairs._

_Istie looked surprised to see Ellana, as she sipped rose hip tea by the sink just as the first rays of the sun streamed through the window._

_“Good morning,” she says. “You’re up early. I expected a college student not to get up before noon.”_

_“I’m not going to miss market day,” Ellana says, helping herself to some of the tea._

_“You used to hate market day,” Istie pointed out. “You used to run off with Mihris and leave his stall unattended for hours.”_

_Ellana laughs. “I was twelve! It’s different now. Besides, everyone will be there and I’d like to see them.”_

_Istie says nothing to that, just purses her lips and finishes her tea._

_The morning dawns bright and sunny enough for Istie to don her gardening hat._ Falon _rumbles into the market square just as the last of the stalls have set up. Istie always likes to hit the market early, before the sun gets hot, so she can have first pick of the wares and plenty of time to visit and check in on everyone._

_The early start is one of the reasons why Ellana dreaded Saturday when she was a child. But now she hops out of the truck almost before the engine is cut and waits impatiently for Istie to gather her things._

_A quick survey reveals the usual crowd: Tarasha and her buckets of thick, ripe berries; Valen and his squash and hand-carved kitchen utensils; Mihris’s sister and their apples and jellies. Even Aenor and his moonshine in the back corner by the giant sycamore tree._

_Living in fast-paced Orlais, where trends could change overnight with no warning, it gives Ellana a sense of relief to look out at a market that hasn’t changed in the last fifteen years._

_“Come along then,” says Istie, handing Ellana a shopping basket._

_Something strange taints her visit. She can’t put her finger on it, but something is off. Her clansmen exclaim at her appearance. They ask about her studies. They tell her how good it is to see her in one piece. Some ask what it’s like to live with humans all the time, if it ever grates on her nerves._

_But her interactions don’t quite live up to her expectations. No one hugs her, or squeezes her hand, or smacks her on the back. They ask questions but pay little attention to her answers. Lirani pokes fun at her Orlesian tennis shoes, but does not offer to fit Ellana for a pair of her famous boots. Tarasha lets her eat the biggest strawberry out of the basket and then charges Ellana half a sovereign. And Istie doesn’t let Ellana out of her sight the entire time._

_Ellana hasn’t seen these people in three years, yet they act as if her appearance isn’t out of the ordinary or worthy of any special attention. No one acts unfriendly, but something leaves her dissatisfied. She expected more of a reaction, which is stupid and possibly arrogant._

“Hey, is this the brand you wanted?”

Krem holds up a pack of chicken and Ellana inspects it for the special green label.

“Yep.”

“You know all this organic shit is stupidly expensive for no reason, right?” he asks, setting it in the cart.

“Don’t even get me started on that,” Ellana warns. “You’ll hear me rant all the way home. Come on, I only have a couple things left.”

Ellana and Varric develop a routine. During the day Varric usually holes himself up in his room to write, appearing sporadically for snacks and coffee. Ellana hangs out with Krem, who stayed behind this summer with Coach Bull, or she reads in the library, or takes walks into town just to wander around.

But in the evenings, they eat dinner together and Varric is right – it’s domestic as hell, two people chatting with the ease of a long-married couple. Whatever scene Varric worked on that day usually dominates the conversation, but they also discuss their favorite books, or what shops Ellana discovered, or gossip about their various friends.

Not once does he ask her about what happened in the Dales. Instead, he acts as though Ellana had always planned to spend the summer with him. Finally, after several nights, she confronts him about it.

“Are you really not going to ask?”

Varric spears one of the roasted potatoes and inspects it. “Well, I was going to allow a chef her seasoning secrets, but I think I detect a hint of nutmeg in this.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Varric gives her a look that would seem dangerously like pity on another, less world-weary soul. “I don’t really think I need to, kid.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not the first Dalish friend I’ve had. I can take a pretty educated guess on the kind of reception you got when you went back home after three years. And I figured that if you wanted to talk about it, you would bring it up.”

“Oh.”

Ellana doesn’t know whether to be insulted that apparently Dalish stereotypes have already influenced Varric or grateful that someone understood without her having to talk about it.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he continues, concentrating more on his fork than her eyes. “I know that rejection and it fucking blows. If you ever want to get something off your chest, I’m here. But I also understand if you would just rather not deal with it for a while.”

Ellana reaches across the tale and squeezes Varric’s broad, calloused hand for a brief moment. “Thank you, Varric.”

Looking at little uncomfortable, Varric waves her off. “Don’t worry about it. My friends are my family now. I take care of my own.”

 

Ellana tries everything she can to put it from her mind. She reads book after book, holed up in the library or on Varric’s couch. She explores downtown with Krem and plays pool with Varric and Iron Bull. But none of it quells the anger that roils just under the surface.

It keeps her from sleep, taunting her with those moments that play over and over in her head. If she had said something different, if she had _done_ something different, would it have changed anything? Or had they made up their minds before she even arrived?

Varric and Krem watch her with careful eyes, as if she’s a rumbling volcano that could explode at any moment, which, honestly, isn’t far from the truth. For weeks after her parents died, Ellana didn’t speak to a single soul and then she flipped out on Valen at the market and overturned his pumpkin table, screaming like a heathen just because he made some comment about her pigtails.

It took years of patience and therapy and meditation to soothe her violent temper. But now, nothing helps, and that urge to break something keeps building and building until it wakes her up in the dark hours of morning, too keyed up to for sleep.

Ellana rolls out of bed, changes into her work-out clothes, and heads to the gym. Iron Bull had given her the keypad password months ago, along with the rest of the Chargers. She slips on a pair of boxing gloves and drills the punching bag as hard as she possibly can.

The satisfaction of the blow and the resulting swing of the bag soothes more than alcohol or drugs or hours of meditation. Ellana hits it again.

Again.

Again.

She loses herself in the thudding rhythm of her blows –

 

_They could see the smoke from the bonfire from the house. By the time Ellana and Istie make it over to the lake, the massive bonfire roars at least twenty feet in the air. Every elf in Wycombe has spread themselves out on towels, blankets, and chairs on the beach and grass. The last of the sun peeks down over the edge of the lake, throwing dark gold rays over the wooden bar and coolers of beer, moonshine, and honey wine._

_Ellana can’t keep her grin in check as she and Istie climb out of the truck. She hasn’t been this keyed up for a holiday since childhood. It doesn’t even matter that_ Era’varlise _isn’t her favorite holiday; just the opportunity to feel Dalish again, to honor Dalish traditions surrounded by her Dalish kin, has her dying with anticipation._

_Istie didn’t help matters either, testing Ellana’s patience with last minute, minor chores that suddenly demanded her attention, or how slowly and carefully she painted the line of flames down Ellana’s fingers._

_It almost felt like Istie didn’t_ want _to go. But, as the Keeper and unofficial master of ceremonies, the ritual can’t begin without her. Perhaps she’s losing the energy for it, now that she’s getting older. Even now, as they head towards the wood pile and the hearth-keepers, Valen and Bael, Ellana senses a reluctance in the woman’s steps._

 _“_ An'daran Atish'an _,” they greet Istie, giving her a shallow bow._

_“Another beautiful fire,” says Istie. “This one might be bigger than last year’s.”_

_Bael grins, soot staining the red of his eyebrows. “We’ve experimented with new lighter fluid this year.”_

_“Well it certainly worked,” says Ellana, gazing up at the inferno that towers off to the side. “The Fereldens couldn’t even dream of a fire this big.”_

_“_ Shems _wouldn’t know a real fire if it took their head off,” scoffs Valen._

 _“Valen, we don’t call them_ shems _,” Istie admonishes, but Valen just shrugs._

_“Have either one of you seen Mihris or Dany?” Ellana asks. With the darkening sky and the throng of elves milling around, it’s hard for her to distinguish faces._

_“I saw Mihris flitting around not to long ago,” says Bael, gesturing vaguely around._

_“Thanks,” says Ellana with an eyeroll. She squeezes Istie’s hand. “I’ll see you later._ Dar’eth _,” she adds to Bael and Valen._

_“See ya,” Bael says._

_Ellana melts into the crowd, scanning faces for her two best friends. Usually the three of the stuck together, so if she finds Mihris, Dany won’t be too far behind. Even though at least three hundred people crowd the beach and field, Ellana isn’t as bogged down by small talk as she initially feared. Most of her clansmen are content to wave or nod their head at her, or point out where they last saw her friends._

_Eventually she doesn’t find Mihris so much as he finds her, tapping on her shoulder. She jerks around but he’s side-stepped to her left, a trick he’s pulled on her a thousand times. In the dim fire light, she can see the silhouette of his dark hair sticking up in its perpetual haystack._

_“How old are you going to be when that stops working?” he asks. “Eighty?”_

_Ellana doesn’t answer, she just throws her arms around him. He staggers a little under the sudden weight of her, arms flailing at his side._

_“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” she says, squeezing him._

_“Is that so?”_

_His hand pats her on the back of her head and then his fingers move to trace lightly over her ear, which tickles._

_“What are you doing?” Ellana pulls back and bats his hand away._

_“Just checking to see if you still have your ears,” he says. “I hear you can remove the tips through surgery.”_

_“Why the hell would I do that?” Ellana stares at his face, partially obscured by shadow, trying to gauge him._

_Quiet and a little strange, Mihris has always been hard to read, even when they were little kids. Varric would kill to partner with him for Wicked Grace. He can say the most outrageous things in such a perfect deadpan voice that Ellana’s never quite sure if he’s serious or not. Over the years, she’s learned to play along with whatever he says to call his bluff, but there’s a layer of . . . something under his joke that makes her feel defensive._

_“I hear elves do all kinds of crazy things to survive the_ shems _,” says Mihris, shrugging._

_“Well I didn’t,” says Ellana. “I’m the same person as when I left.”_

_The corner of his lips raises up in his typical smirk-smile, but it’s missing his usual warmth. “That remains to be seen. If you’re looking for Dany, she won’t be here until the ceremony.”_

_“She’s not with you?” Ellana asks, surprised._

_“Nah. She hangs with Isena and her friends a lot.”_

_Ellana’s eyebrows jump up. Overly sensitive and bossy, Isena avoided Dany and her sharp tongue like a human plague all through their high school days._

_“How the hell did_ that _happen?”_

_“Loneliness is a powerful motivator,” says Mihris and before she can even process that statement, he gives her a wave and disappears into the crowd._

_Ellana doesn’t move for a long moment, watching him walk away. This was not the conversation she envisioned with her best friend after three years apart. In fact, it feels weirdly like she just had an argument. And then for him to just ditch her like that?_

_Mihris has always been weird, she tells herself. And aloof. And talks in riddles and double speak because he thinks being extra mysterious is cool. And even though she thought he had stopped all that bullshit with her a long time ago, maybe this is Mihris just being Mihris. Maybe Dany might be able to provide some insight once she gets here._

_Still, she feels disquieted enough to head straight for the bar to throw back a shot of moonshine. It feels like she’s swallowed the bonfire, sending her into a coughing fit like a child._

_“Godsdamn, I forgot how strong that is,” she gasps._

_“They don’t got nothing like that in_ Shem _Land, don’t they,” Aenor hollers, laughing at her._

_“They sure as hell don’t. Get me another,” Ellana says, slapping the table._

_“Careful there, ‘Llana. I don’t wanna find you puking your guts up in the lake like a_ shem _.”_

_“I haven’t been gone that long,” Ellana snaps. “I still got it.”_

_“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”_

_She stops at two shots, feeling her head go fuzzy and the fire blurry. Aenor seems disappointed she won’t drink her usual four, but Ellana wants to pace herself. It has been quite a while since she drank liquor that strong._

_The alcohol numbs the unease that’s built up in her, and she searches for Istie, cheer restored by the power of moonshine. Of course, she finds the Keeper sitting in one of the carved chairs by the roasting table, eating the marshmallows and toasted bread and sausage that any child gifts her._

_“Did you find Mihris?” Istie asks, handing her a stick and a marshmallow._

_“Yep!” Ellana says, struggling to spear the marshmallow onto the roasting stick._

_“I see you’ve found the bar.” There’s a hint of displeasure in Istie’s voice, or perhaps it’s worry. Either way, Ellana elects to ignore it._

_“Aenor is very generous,” she replies and steps closer to the bonfire to roast her treat. She misjudges the distance needed and turns it into a flaming ball almost immediately. Whatever, it’s not the first charred marshmallow she’s ever eaten._

_Ellana sits with Istie, bowing at her clansmen and eating her weight in marshmallows while keeping an eye out for Dany._

_As tradition dictates, once the fire starts to die down, each elf in the clan grabs a stick from the woodpile and whispers a prayer of thanks to Sylaise before placing it in the fire. Eventually, through all the added wood, the fire builds back up again, a symbol of the power of community and how each person’s contribution, no matter how small, is important._

_Istie walks to the front of the fire and leads the clan in the Song of Sylaise. Ellana raises her voice for it, the moonshine making her mouth stumble over the elvhen syllables. Then Ellana joins the line by the woodpile while Istie prays with each elf as they add their stick._

_When it comes time for her turn, Bael gives her a flat look and says, “No. Get out of the line.”_

_It takes a moment for this to process (the moonshine has definitely hit)._

_“Excuse me?” Ellana asks._

_“I’m not giving her one,” he says, glaring at the crowd who does not immediately denounce him. “I can handle her coming here, eating our food, drinking our booze, but I won’t deal with her doing_ Era’varlise _like she’s one of us!”_

_A murmur goes through the line, but it doesn’t sound angry._

_It sounds like agreement._

_“You forget yourself, Bael,” Istie says, her voice calm but utterly frigid. “Your drink has loosened your thoughts.”_

_“No!” Bael shouts, pointing at Ellana.  “She forgets_ herself _! She ditches the clan and lives like a_ shem _for years, and you think we should just let her back in with open arms after she traded us for the enemy?”_

_“The humans have not been our enemy for two hundred years!” Istie snaps. “Or do you forget who we trade with?”_

_“I’m tired of pretending for you, Keeper! And I think I speak for everyone else here when I say that.”_

_The crowd cheers their agreement, and jeers at Ellana. It feels unreal, like one of her nightmares. Clans didn’t turn on each other. Her entire culture was built around the idea of community._

_“Pretending?” Ellana demands. “What the hell are you talking about?”_

_“It’s nothing, Ellana,” says Istie, but Bael cuts her off._

_“None of us want her here, but we kept our mouths shut about it for your sake,” he says, addressing Istie. It’s like Ellana isn’t even here. “But no more.”_

_Head spinning from shock and alcohol, Ellana can’t believe what she’s hearing. The whole clan pretended to be happy to see her? It sounds ridiculous, like a bad plot from one of Josephine’s soap operas. And yet Bael won’t even look her in the eye and that really pisses her off. Suddenly, her course of action becomes clear: start a fight._

_“If you want to say something, say it to my godsdamn face,” she says, snapping her fingers in Bael’s face as if he were a misbehaving dog._

_Finally, his gaze slides to her and the amount of hate in it takes her aback. “You don’t belong here,” he says, enunciating each word with precision, despite his obvious inebriation. “You’re a worthless_ shem _.”_

Thud.

Thud.

Thudthudthud.

Ellana punches the bag harder. Faster. It starts to swing back and forth.

 

_Ellana rears her fist back and drills him in the face. His head snaps back with the force of her trained fist and comes back with a bloody nose. In the back of her mind she makes a note to thank Coach Bull later._

_A gasp goes through the crowd._

_“Ellana!” Istie yells in a tone of anger Ellana’s never heard from her._

_Bael wastes no time retaliating, hitting her in the stomach, and the yell that erupts from Istie is downright_ scary _. But Ellana is too drunk to feel that much pain. She leaps onto Bael, sending them both to the ground in a flurry of fists and kicks that don’t land as often as they do. Bael tries to block her fists with his forearm and when that doesn’t work, his large fingers wrap around her throat._

_Ellana fights for air, hearing Istie’s screams faintly in the background, flailing her fists on his chest, his stomach, anywhere she can land them._

_Someone kicks Bael viciously in the side, hard enough to jar his grip, and a pair of arms haul her off the ground._

_Ellana realizes for the first time that her versus three hundred of her clansmen won’t be a fight she can win. She chokes out a breath, trying to break out of the grip, but four hands prove too much for her._

_“Take her to the truck, Mihris,” Istie says, her voice sounding far away over the roaring in Ellana’s ears._

_The two pair of arms tuck themselves on either side of her, hauling her down the field to_ Falon _. The smell of perfume tickles Ellana’s nose, achingly familiar and yet she can’t place it._

_“Is she bleeding?” Mihris asks._

_“How the fuck should I know? It’s too dark.”_

_“Dany?” Ellana slurs, turning to her right to get a look at her friend. “Dany, is that you?”_

_A huffed sigh. “Fucking great. How many shots did she have? Gods, I hope she doesn’t remember this.”_

Falon’s _door opens with a rusty yelp. Mihris helps her into the cab, bending over her to clip her seatbelt in place._

_“Don’t – don’t leave,” Ellana whispers._

_Her head aches. The world is spinning. She wants to puke and cry and break something all at the same time._

_They leave._

Pain flares up in Ellana’s hand, but she doesn’t stop. Pure, unadulterated rage courses through her and she won’t stop hitting this goddamn fucking bag until she breaks it off its goddamn fucking hook and –

“Ellana!

The bag stops swinging and Ellana hits it harder, pain lancing up her arm. She will destroy this stupid thing. She will obliterate it. She will –

“Ellana, _stop!”_

Hands large enough to cover her entire shoulder yank her away from the bag. She lands on her ass a few feet away, looking up as Coach Bull appears like a vision before her.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands, crouching beside her.

Too winded to speak, Ellana just shakes her head. Coach Bull regards her for a moment and then he sits down beside her on the floor and gingerly takes her hand in his. With a gentleness that belies his size, he presses on her hand for damage.

“Well you just broke a couple of your fingers, so I’m guessing you’re not as okay as you pretend to be.”

“Oh I’m . . . definitely not,” Ellana says in between breaths.

She cradles her hand, which is really starting to throb, to her chest.

“You ever thought about, I don’t know, talking to someone about it?”

Ellana scoffs. “Who am I going to talk to? I’m literally the only Dalish person in, like, a two-hundred-mile radius of this place.”

“Your friends don’t have to be Dalish to listen to you,” chides Coach Bull.

“That’s not it, Coach. It’s . . . the Dalish get so much negativity from the rest of world. I’m not going to add to it, even if it feels like they deserve it right now.”

Coach Bull claps a hand on her shoulder. “You should talk to someone, eventually. I’m always here if you need me. Hell, I’ll even get you drunk first to help you out.”

Ellana shudders at the memory of her drunken fist fight. “No. I’m done with alcohol helping me with my feelings. It didn’t turn out too great the last time.”

“I hear that.” Coach Bull locks eyes with her and she can’t look away.  “Just remember, Ellana: you might be the only Dalish around, but you’re not the only one who knows what it’s like to be ostracized by people you care about.”

She can only nod.

“Come on. I have ice, painkillers, and some finger splints. That should get you through until you hit up the nurse.”

 

_The drive back home is agonizing. Ellana holds out the entire way home, Istie’s angry silence making the tension in the cab nearly suffocating. As the alcohol wears off, the pain of her fight starts creeping in. It hurts to breathe._

_When they get home, Istie guides Ellana into the kitchen, sitting her at the table while she grabs a bag of peas._

_Ellana sees her reflection in the window, and bursts into sobs, the kind that shakes you, hurt deep in your chest._

_“Oh Ellana,” Istie says, her own voice breaking. She presses the bag of peas against Ellana’s head, fingers of her other hand flitting over Ellana’s face and neck. “_ Ir abelas. Ir abelas, vhenan.”

_She cradles Ellana in her arms for a long, long time._

_“Why didn’t you tell me they all hated me?” Ellana demands, once her sobs have died down. “Why didn’t you warn me? How long has this been going on?”_

_"I suspect it has built over a long time,” says Istie, and she sounds distressed. “I knew it upset many people when you left, but I thought they would get over it. I suspect that once they saw my support for you, they kept their anger to themselves. Truly I thought the sight of you might wipe away old resentments."_

_“Well you thought wrong,” says Ellana bitterly._

_“I did._ Ir abelas, _but I did. And you have suffered for it.”_

_Ellana gently pulls away from her Keeper’s embrace, suddenly desperate to be alone._

_“I think I’m going to bed.”_

_“Take mine,” Istie says immediately. “I’ll sleep upstairs.”_

_“No. I can make it.”_

_She forces herself out of the chair, and climbs gingerly and clumsily up the stairs, Istie watching from below to ensure she doesn’t fall. With several curses and grunts of pain, Ellana collapses into her bed and stares up at the ceiling until the early morning rays of sunshine filter through her window._

The next morning her hand has swelled up nearly twice its size and hurts like a bitch. Varric takes her to the emergency room, and he doesn’t say a word about why she returns to the apartment at eight in the morning with a fucked-up hand. He does, however, tell her to shut up when she protests him paying for her cast. (It turns out she broke a couple of fragile bones in the back of her hand in addition to her two middle fingers).

On the drive back to the apartment, Varric eyes her cast and sighs.

“Look, kid, I don’t give a shit who it is: Krem, Josephine, some poor bastard next to you in the grocery line. If you’re bottling up shit inside you until you break your own hand, then you need to talk to somebody. _Anybody_.”

“Yeah,” Ellana says, staring out the window. “I know.”

“Good. So long as you know.”

And after that Varric drops it completely.

 

The cast itches and Ellana keeps forgetting about it and banging it into cabinet doors and tables and the bookshelf. The pain in her arm keeps her up at night, and one sleepless morning, Ellana opens her phone and pulls up her email.

Varric did tell her to talk to someone.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: I don’t even know_

_Once again it’s like three in the morning and once again I’m a mess. Please tell me if you get sick of these kinds of emails. I don’t know why, but the middle of the night seems to be the only time I can’t keep my feelings under control. And getting them out to you always feels like the safest option. If you ever judge me for them, at least I won’t ever see it._

_So I know you’re dying to know what happened this summer. Everyone I know is, some less subtle than others. Varric offered to pay me actual money if I told him and he could put it some story or whatever. He was only mostly joking, trying to distract me in the emergency room._

_Oh yeah, I broke my hand on a punching bag. So that’s probably a good sign that I shouldn’t keep this to myself anymore. Well, here it is. The big secret:_

_I went back home and my clan deemed me a blood traitor and disowned me. They made this decision pretty much the second I left, but nobody fucking bothered to tell me until three years later. Not even my Keeper, and she’s the one person who still gives a shit about me. She thought they would get over me leaving, or that their love for me would overcome their disappointment or some other optimistic bullshit._

_My parents died when I was seven. These people fucking raised me. They taught me everything I know, they put up with all my childhood jackassery, they were my family. And apparently none of that fucking matters because the second I stepped off Dalish ground, they were done with me._

_Just like that. Like it was the easiest decision in the world._

_But the shittiest part all of this? Nobody I know seems fucking surprised by it. They all called it: Varric, Krem, Iron Bull. Even your sad lawyer._

_And I hate that. I hate every ridiculous stereotype people have to the Dalish. I’ve heard them all.  That we don’t bathe or have all our teeth or know how to read and write. That we all live in the woods like wild animals. That we hate anyone not Dalish to the point of violence. That we both worship and have sex with Halla. That we sacrifice rebellious members of the clan to our pagan gods._

_Ever since I left the Dales the first time I’ve tried so_ hard _to prove them all wrong. To show the world that the Dalish idea they have is some made up fairy tale. That Dalish are real people with a real culture that isn’t any weirder than anywhere else in Thedas. It’s why I never told anyone the real reason why I wanted to leave._

_The humans expect me to have wanted to leave. Their idea of the Dales is so horrible that they treated me like some fortunate escapee from a cult. They will never understand how hard it was to leave, how I still agonize over that decision, how homesick I am all the fucking time._

_But the truth is, the Dalish are single minded and I got sick of it. My people are so obsessed with their own culture that they refuse to notice there’s a huge, wide, fascinating world out there that deserves just as much attention._

_And it’s not even the full culture we’re obsessed with, it’s tiny fragments that we’ve pathetically tried to piece together. No one knows what Arlathan was really like, not even Dr. Felassan. For him it’s just guesswork. For us it’s just word of mouth that’s been passed down and distorted for the past thousand years. We’ll never know the truth and it’s stupid to cling to what pieces remain and block out the rest of the world._

_In the end, my clan proved to be just as rigid and hateful and fucking crazy as the world believes and that just_ infuriates _me. It’s not fair, after all the work I did, after all the times I’ve stuck up for them. Even now I’ve refused to talk about it to anyone because I still didn’t want to hear their judgement._

_But I’ve done a lot of thinking about it and you know what?_

_Fine._

_They tell me I’m not Dalish anymore. That I’ve turned into a Shem._

_So be it. I’m not Dalish. I won’t celebrate any holidays, I won’t speak any Elvhen, I won’t mention my clan at all._

_Fuck all of them. The people who love and accept me the most besides my Keeper are all my NON DALISH friends. So if being Dalish means dismissing people like Varric or Krem or Josie as less than me, then I quit._

_You know, I’ve struggled so hard the past three years trying to find a balance of keeping my Dalish identity and fitting in with everyone else. To finally be able to pick a side is freeing._

_Thank you for listening, Fen’Harel._

_~ Ellana_

She forces herself not to expect a reply. The shame of her drunken rant that Fen’Harel should validate her feelings last winter break still hangs over her, even if he did end up responding. But a part of her secretly hopes to hear from him, even if she squashes that part and refuses to check her email more than once a day.

But once again, Fen’Harel does not disappoint her.

 

_To: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_From: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_Re: I don’t even know_

_Ellana,_

_Forgive the late reply. I have struggled to find words that might comfort you. I’m afraid there aren’t many, save for these two, as pithy as they may sound:_

_I’m sorry._

_The loss of family is always hard to take, and you have lost so much already. I can only hope that Skyhold will provide the distraction you need until time eases your pain._

_As for your status as a Dalish elf, I can tell you this: only you can decide who and what you are. Your clan has no power to make or unmake your identity. Do not allow them to make you feel as if you cannot be what you are._

_We all have multitudes within us. It’s possible to be a college student and a Dalish elf simultaneously. Just as it’s possible for the Dalish to both rise above their stereotypes and fall prey to them._

_I must agree with your earlier statement, however. It is not healthy to hold these feelings within you with no outlet. That you broke your hand worries me. I am honored that you trust me enough to confide in me, but I don’t believe your friends would judge you or your people if you reached out to them. They seem to have taken good care of you so far._

_I am always here to listen any time you need it._

_Yours,_

_Fen’Harel_

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Re: re: I don’t even know_

_Thank you. You say your words can’t give any comfort, but they have always made me feel relief. I know you’re busy. I know you didn’t sign up to hear about my issues when you asked for monthly updates. But I appreciate your advice all the same. I think about your words all the time._

_It’s good to have a friend like you._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

Krem starts coming over for dinner in the evenings, mostly because Ellana can’t cut anything with one hand and Varric has been stuck in a frenzy trying to finish his first draft by the end of the month.  He stands next to her, cutting up peppers and potatoes and sausage and dumping them into the skillet as he goes.

“Your part is easy,” he complains. “You just get to stand there and poke things with a spatula.”

“Do you really want to me to be the one holding the knife every time you mouth off?”

“I’m good,” he says quickly.

Ellana rolls her eyes. “You need to know what it feels like to be useful. Also, I need the potatoes in small pieces or they won’t cook all the way through.”

“You know, if computer science doesn’t work out, you should try being one of those mean chefs that yell at everyone on those cooking shows.”

“You say that disparagingly and yet that sounds like an awesome idea. I could cuss on national television and everything.”

“Well, it looks like your backup is set.”

“Yeah, Dorian would love to hear me back out of Skyhold for culinary school, let me tell you.”

“How about you two stop bickering like an old married couple and get busy with dinner,” comes Varric’s voice from the hall. “The master of the house is getting a mite peckish.”

Krem catches her eye and smiles. “You know, the friends who bicker together, stay together.”

Ellan swallows and looks away. “They do say that,” she says. “Now fix those potatoes before the _Master of the House_ gets his dwarf panties in a twist.”

 

_Ellana spends that next day mostly in bed. She feels sick, physically ill, a stomach cramp that won’t go away, a pain in her chest every time her heart beats. Istie makes her soup and tea and doesn’t nag at Ellana to get out of bed._

_It’s like the death of her parents, this feeling of loss. This sudden emptiness. Who is her family now? Who will love and accept her now?_

_But just like when she was seven, the crush of sorrow melts into the burn of anger. Her clansmen don’t understand her? Fine. But she knows at least one person who should have had her back. And the next day, Ellana wakes up, throws her hair into a pony tail, and heads straight for Dany’s._

_It’s early enough that she catches Dany walking out to feed the Halla. Ellana waits for her by the side of the barn. When Dany finally catches sight of her, she jerks back so violently, half the oats spill onto the ground._

_“_ Fenedhis!” _she gasps “What the hell are you doing here?”_

_“We need a conversation,” says Ellana, crossing her arms._

_“I don’t have anything to say to you. If you know what’s good for you, you would leave. Now.”_

_Know what’s good for her? Ellana nearly laughs at the audacity of it. But in a strange way, she’s relieved, because they’ve fought with each other like cranky Halla at least a hundred times it the last fifteen years. This is familiar territory for them._

_“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell happened with you at that bonfire.”_

_“Maybe you were too drunk to remember, but I didn’t say anything at that bonfire,” Dany snaps._

_“Well you sure as hell didn’t defend me!”_

_“Is that what you expected me to do?”_

_“What the fuck, Dany? We’re best friends, of course that’s what I expected you to do!”_

_“We are_ not _friends!” Dany yells – screams, actually, -- loud enough to startle the Halla in the barn and it feels like one of them just kicked Ellana in the stomach._

_This –   isn’t familiar territory. Not at all. As many times as they’ve fought – with words, with hair pulling, with the sabotage of their pencils or hair brushes – their friendship never faltered. They could call each other the worst insults one night and pretend like the entire thing never happened the next morning._

_They never fought because they hated each other, but for being too similar. Because one never put up with the other’s bullshit for even a second. Because it reassured them that they would never be abandoned no matter how much they might instinctively push the other away._

_“How can you say that?” Ellana says, barely a whisper._

_“Don’t_ even _,” Dany says, a level of bitterness in her tone that she had never before directed at Ellana. “Don’t you_ dare _, Ellana Lavellan. You_ ditched _me! You ditched me for the_ shems _. And I don’t hear from you for two fucking years and you think you can just waltz back home and act like you didn’t just forget that I existed?”_

_“That’s not how it was,” says Ellana, and she hates the pleading that sneaks in her tone. “I was working three jobs just to live!  I could barely afford to eat every week, I barely had time to sleep. I didn’t even have a phone for two years.  I couldn't just drop everything and come here whenever I felt like it."_

_"If it was so horrible, then why didn't you just move back home?"_

_"So I could just run back here with my tail between my legs just because it wasn't a fairy-tale? You know me better than that!”_

_"Oh_ fuck _you, Ellana," says Dany with an eyeroll. "Stop trying to paint some noble, determined picture of yourself. You couldn't wait to get out of the Dales.  Being Dalish isn't good enough for you, just like Bael said. You’re not different than a fucking flat-ear in Denerim, so just go back to_ shem _-land where you belong."_

_There’s a horrible note of finality in her voice, a judgement wrought in stone._

_“There’s nothing I can say to make this better, is there?”_

_Dany just looks at her for a moment, her face a mask of apathy, like she burned out the part that cared about Ellana a long time ago. "You can't live in the_ shem _world and be Dalish, Ellana. The Chantry made that pretty fucking obvious. When you left for Orlais, you made your choice, loud and clear. I don't know what you thought you'd find when you came back, but it sure isn't a clan. We've moved on. You should too. Being Dalish is a full-time gig, not just when it's convenient for you."_

_With that she turns and starts walking back to the barn, dismissing Ellana without a word._

_Ellana walks back home, numb._

_A few days later, Istie leaves for Market, leaving Ellana alone at home. So of course Mihris drops by in a pick-up truck full of saplings._

_Ellana freezes in the kitchen, heart pounding. Dany was bad enough; she doesn’t know if she could handle utter rejection a third time._

_Sliding slowly down to the floor, she hides behind the counter, hoping that Mihris will drop off the saplings and go._

_She nearly jumps out of her skin when he knocks on the back door beside her. It’s too late to crawl to the living room; he’ll see her through the window._

_“I know you’re there, Ellana,” comes his voice, matter of fact._

_Taking a deep breath, Ellana stands up, coffee cup in hand, and opens up the back door._

_“Istie’s at the Market,” she says in lieu of a greeting, trying to sound casual and apathetic._

_“I know. I saw her there.” He jerks his thumb to the truck. In the back sit several saplings, the roots wrapped up in burlap. “Come help me unload these.”_

_Ellana slips her shoes on and follows him to the truck, nerves swooping low in her stomach. True to form, Mihris gives nothing of himself away as he unlatches the tailgate. It’s impossible to say if he came here to pick a fight or apologize or something else. Growing up she loved his unpredictability, but now it feels like stepping on a landmine, not knowing if it’s been deactivated or not._

_Unlike Dany, Mihris’ anger is quiet. It simmers a long time and then he lets it loose with one well timed comment perfectly crafted to hurt as much as possible._

_The silence around them is strange as they unload twelve peach saplings onto the back porch. Memories of the bonfire flare up and the weird, tense conversation they shared before he walked off, a portent of what was to come. She knows he must be upset with her. But she also remembers the way he kicked Bael off of her and carried her to_ Falon _._

_A hope that he might not hate her entirely blooms in her, small but wild._

_As Mihris sets down the last sapling and brushes off his hands, Ellana struggles to find the courage to say something, anything. But every time she opens her mouth, the words disappear under the pressure not to fuck this up._

_“I can tell you want to say something,” Mihris says, leaning against the porch railing. “Out with it.”_

_Her mouth dries up. Ellana stuffs her hands in her back pocket so he doesn’t see the way they clench._

_“I just wanted to say . . . thanks. For getting Bael off of me in that fight.”_

_“You mean, getting you off of Bael.”_

_Ellana squirms. “Yeah. That.”_

_“He was going to seriously kick your ass.” His tone, flat and matter of fact, betrays nothing._

_“Well, that seemed to be the outcome people wanted, so . . ._ ma sarrannas _.”_

_Mihris doesn’t answer for a long moment. He just looks at her, his face carefully neutral and Ellana feels like she’s under a microscope._

_“I wasn’t going to watch you get the shit beat out of you,” he says finally. “I don’t hate you. After two years of nothing, I just gave up on you.”_

_“So . . . we’re not friends?” Ellana asks._

_“No,” he confirms and something in his look softens. “But we’re not enemies either. I wish you luck at your fancy_ shem _university. I’m sure Istie will let me know if you graduated or not.”_

_He nods to her and then walks away to his truck._

_If Dany’s anger felt like a swift kick in the gut, his disappointment hits like a crack in the ice. It starts small and then splinters outward until the whole surface is shattered. As his truck disappears down the dirt lane, Ellana wipes tears away from her cheeks and heads back inside._

It hits her in the middle of the afternoon as she’s reading in the quad.

It’s Solace 10th: Alistair’s birthday.

She flushes with guilt at the thought that she hasn’t sent a card or texted him in months.

 _I just gave up on you_.

Swiping her phone open, Ellana pulls his number from contacts and calls him. He might not have remembered his phone bill this month (a bad habit Ellana could never break him of, no matter how many post-it note reminders she left), but he deserved the attempt.

“Hello, stranger!” his voice chirps after the third ring.

Stranger. Ellana swallows a lump of regret. “Hey, birthday boy,” she replies. “I sent you a stripper in a cake, but I think she got lost.”

Alistair laughs. “Well a drunk lady _did_ flash me last night, but I have yet to see any cake.”

“Wow. So how did your first eyeful of the female body feel?”

“Well, she was at least eighty, so not as great as I would hope,” comes his dry reply. “And excuse you, but I have seen a woman’s . . . breasts before, thank you very much.”

“Porn doesn’t count, Alistair. They’re all fake.”

“You have no room to talk. You’re just as much of a virgin as I am.”

“Well it’s not my fault that having sex with anyone in my clan would feel like incest.”

“Just as it’s not my fault I want to fall passionately in love first.”

Ellana chuckles, and a spark of homesickness for their cramped little apartment flares up.

“How have you been?” she asks. “I’m sorry that I haven’t talked to you sooner. I should have called earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Alistair easily. “College life is crazy, or so the T.V. says. I knew you hadn’t forgotten about me.”

“No one could ever forget someone like you,” she says, gladly taking the risk to sound cheesy.

“Dear Maker, the relief of summer break is making you mushy. Just how stressful was that first year?”

“Fuck off, Alistair.”

“There we go. Much better. Actually, I’m really glad you called because I have some exciting news.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’ve chosen a new career.”

“Don’t tell me that the eighty-year-old flasher awoke something in you.”

“Actually, I’ve off and joined the military.”

Ellana can’t speak for a moment. “ . . . _What?_ ”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got all the rest of your stuff in storage. The apartment is, regrettably, going to have to go. But I think it’s for the best. We never could get rid of that mold in the bathroom.”

“ _You?_ The military?” Ellana takes a moment to wrap her head around it.

“What is that supposed to mean, exactly?”

“But you’re so sunny and flirty and – goofy. The military is going to kick your ass.”

“Thank you for the support,” he says, and she can hear the eye roll in his voice. “And the military is not like the movies, Ellana. They’re not going to make me do fifty laps because I cracked a joke.”

“If that’s what you want, then I’m happy for you. Really, I am. What branch are you thinking about?”

“The Wardens,” says Alistair, sounding a little sheepish.

Ellana smiles, remembering the TV show _Wardens of the Grey_ that Alistair watches religiously.

“Wow. What a big surprise,” she drawls.

“Shut up, Ellana. I can hear you judging from here. _Anyway_ , I leave for boot camp in about three weeks. I’m going to text you the address, so you can write me.”

“Sounds great.”

She vows to write him at least every other week.

 

Her own birthday happens just a couple of weeks after Alistair’s, on the 25th. Ellana expects nothing, not after the lavish party Varric threw her at the beginning of break, with the expectation that she would be gone all summer. But to her surprise, Varric takes her out to dinner, with Krem, Iron Bull, and Dorian, fresh off the plane from Tevinter, tagging along.

But the best surprise is left on Varric’s doorstep in a plain box with no return address. Beside it sits a bouquet of embrium and crystal grace in a tall, fluted vase.

“Is this from one of your many admirers?” Ellana asks.

Varric laughs. “Like Cassandra would send anyone flowers.”

“Out of all your many fans, you think of Cassandra first?”

“Are you implying something, Inquisitor?”

“Never,” says Ellana, shooting for innocent, but she can’t bite back her smirk.

“Good, because the box is addressed to you.”

“What?”

Ellana juggles the leftovers and squats down to get a closer look. Varric’s address is printed on the front in the same font as the box that contained her winter coat.

Fen’Harel.

Varric carries her flowers in and sets them on the counter while Ellana gets a knife to cut the tape on the box.

“You sly dog,” he murmurs to himself and Ellana turns to bust him catching a peek at the card.

“Back off, Varric,” she says. “Get your own birthday flowers.”

Varric takes a step back, hands in the air. “Yes ma’am.”

Ellana slips the knife through the table, Varric right at her elbow and eager for a peek. Curious bastard. Inside the shipping box is a smaller, sleeker box in matte black.

 She stares at it for a moment, hackles raised. It looks fancy. Too fancy.

“Come on, the suspense is killing me,” complains Varric.

The lid slides off to reveal a laptop computer, just as sleek and dark as the box it came in. Varric whistles.

“Damn, if that’s the brand I think it is, this isn’t some cheap shit.”

Slowly, partly in awe and partly because she fears damaging it, Ellana takes the computer out of the box and opens it on the table. While she touches the glass screen and the soft keyboard buttons reverently, Varric scans the packaging and lets out another whistle.

“Damn, Ellana, check out the specs on this thing. It’s got more RAM than my fucking desktop. This is a laptop for a CEO.”

Ellana knows nothing about CPU or RAM, though she probably better start now that she changed her major. But she does know expensive. And this computer is expensive on an unnecessarily extravagant level. She plucks the card out of the bouquet, hoping that it would contain more information, with no luck.

 _Shathe en’alas’dhea_ reads the print on the card. It’s accompanied by a hand drawn cartoon of a wolf, with an inked paw print in place of a signature.

“So, who’s giving you birthday wishes?” Varric asks.

“I’m sure you already know, since you peeked,” Ellana says. “But I think it’s Fen’Harel. Is there a receipt anywhere in that box?”

“No. I think he knows you well enough by now to make everything non-refundable.”

“I can’t accept this!” Ellana cries, even as her fingers glide over the mouse pad.

“Why the hell not? It’s your birthday.”

“It’s too extravagant!”

Varric levels with her with a look of . . . pity? “Are you saying you don’t deserve nice things?”

“My nice thing from him is a college education. I don’t need anything else, especially not a . . . what does this thing retail for?”

“Oho! No way in hell I’m telling you that. And besides, if this guy can send you off to college without batting an eye at his checkbook, he can afford to buy you ten of these computers a year. Don’t sweat it, Ellana.”

She purses her lips, unable to argue with him. Instead, she pulls up her email and of course there is a message waiting for her.

 

_To: e_lavellan@skyhold.edu_

_From: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_Subject: No, you cannot return this._

_Happy Birthday, Ellana! If I were tempted to gamble, I would bet ten sovereigns that you are currently having what you would call a “freak out” right now. Yes, the computer is yours. Yes, it was expensive. Yes, you must accept it. You cannot soley depend on the library for all your school work; you need something more reliable. This computer should last you well past your graduation if taken care of, which I know you will._

_If you wish to chastise me, so be it. I look forward to it. Please know that I do not do these things so I can bask in your adulation or gratitude or to make you feel like you owe me a debt. I simply think you deserve to have it._

Shathe en’alas’dhea.

_Yours,_

_Fen’Harel_

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Re: No, you cannot return this._

_It’s scary how accurately you predicted my “freak out” (which, if that’s what you believe the young people say, you’re off by about ten years). This computer is probably the most expensive thing I have ever owned. I’m utterly paranoid that I’m going to drop it or spill something on it and ruin it. But Varric has told me, repeatedly, that some people enjoy spending money on their friends and I need to suck it up and allow myself to be spoiled. He is also someone who has spent a lot of money on me._

_So this is me, playing on my new laptop and sucking it up. It’s not as hard as I thought it would be, haha. I know you’re not doing this for the gratitude, but I am incredibly grateful. Thank you for everything._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

It happens one quiet night in the living room. Ellana and Varric halfway watch an episode of _Vicious Chef_ while they play Crazy 8’s on the coffee table. But the episode is a re-run and they’re on their fifth match of the night and Ellana can’t stop noticing the crow’s feet that gather in the corner of his eyes every time he smiles. It reminds her of something Fen’Harel said in his email about her friends.

 _They have taken good care of you so far_.

And Varric has, ever since they met in Comp 101. Parts of him, like his reading glasses, and his deep chuckle, and the way he adopts lonely people like little ducklings, remind her of her _babae_. The memory of him, and of her mother, still hurts enough that she keeps it tucked away in the far reaches of her mind. Like staring in the sun, she can only sneak tiny glimpses of these memories before they start to burn. But perhaps it’s still hurts because she has never tried to confront it -- a broken bone never tended to.

“There’s a woman in my clan – Tarasha. She would give Chef a run for his money,” Ellana says, staring down at her plate. “Every insult I ever learned I got from her. She could cuss a blue streak that would last half an hour without repeating anything once.”

“That’s impressive,” Varric says. “You’ll have to teach me some Dalish vulgarity. My friend Merrill is too good-hearted to ever use them.”

“I probably know more insults than any other kind of elvhen.”

Like her father, Varric is content with silence. He waits her out, rolling his eyes at a erectile dysfunction commercial.

“You were right,” Ellana says. “About what happened with me and my clan. They completely disowned me. Well, everyone except the Keeper.”

He turns his gaze towards her. “I’m sorry, Ellana. I hate hearing that. That must hurt like a bitch.”

She nods. “But I’m ready to talk about it and I know you’re curious.”

“That shouldn’t be the only reason why you want to tell me.”

Ellana gives him a crooked smile. “It’s not.”

She describes the strange vibe at the market, and the events of the bonfire. Varric is already familiar with _Era’varlise_ , so she doesn’t have to explain the ritual. He understands the significance of not allowing her to participate. Even with his patient listening, Ellana glosses over the conversations with Dany and Mihris. It still hurts too much to even think about it.

“What happened after?” Varric asks when she’s done. “You didn’t get here until almost two weeks later.”

 

_For two weeks Ellana doesn't leave the house. She helps Istie with the rose garden, repairs the southern fence and the dock, fishes and hikes around Istie’s property. She works through all her childhood favorites from the bookshelf in the living room._

_She visits her parent’s grave once, weeding the patch of crystal grace she and Istie planted there._

_Eventually Ellana gets restless enough to dog out her old embroidery, steadfastly picking out the tangled thread and starting over._

_Once a much-hated chore, despite Istie's enthusiasm for it, now it provides her a distraction from everything else. She and Istie sit in the living room at night, listening to the crickets sing through the open window and Istie shows Ellana all the tricks she refused to learn as a child._

_Ellana didn't realize how much she missed Istie until they sit at the kitchen table for morning cups of tea. The longing had coursed through her, a deep and quiet river buried under all the stress of work and the excitement of new experiences and pure stubbornness._

_Part mother, part grandmother, part mentor and leader, Ellana can’t catalog what Istie is to her. But she has no bond like this with any other being in the world. Gods, if Istie had rejected her with the rest of the clan, Ellana wouldn’t know how to handle it._

_Not until now has she realized just how much her Keeper has done for her. It makes her want travel through time and slap the fuck out of her moody, pre-teen self for every stupid, petty fight she used to pick with Istie. At least now she has a summer to make up for some of that lost time._

_Or she thought she did._

_One morning as they drink their tea on the matching rocking chairs on the back porch, Istie reaches over and squeezes Ellana’s hand. "I think it's time you returned to school."_

_Ellana goes cold._

_"You don't want me here?"_

_Dany hurt. Mihiris hurt. But Ellana could not bear the thought of Istie quietly agreeing with the rest  of the clan and silently suffering through Ellana’s company._

_Istie squeezes her hand almost painfully._

_"_ Ma'ghilan _, I will always want you here. But you cannot hide in this house for the whole summer. You are happy at school. You have friends, your mind is challenged in ways we could never hope to match. I had a wonderful visit with you but there is nothing yet to be done with the rest of the clan and I will not sit and watch you suffer from it. Go back. Be happy. I will deal with them."_

_“I like spending this time with you,” Ellana protests._

_“And I enjoy it just as much. Trust me, I have dreamed of the day you could sit still for more than five minutes and embroider with me.” They share a smile. “But you deserve to be around people who support you. I will not see you waste away in this house for two more months.”_

_Ellana is reminded, probably just as Istie is, of the weeks after her parents died. How she laid around this house, listless and empty, until she found something, usually destructive, to distract her. And even then, the distraction did not last and she would sit on the couch and stare at the blank tv screen for hours._

_“I can ask for an earlier ticket home,” Ellana says._

_“I think it’s for the best. But I will miss you,_ da’len _. Oh, so much. I will have to come and visit you there sometime.”_

_Ellana smiles at the thought of showing Istie around downtown, of having her meet Varric and Iron Bull. Dorian would utterly sweep Istie off her feet, it would be disgusting._

_“That would be amazing.”_

_But her Keeper is right. As much as she will miss Istie, Ellana can’t stay here all summer. She needs to get back to Skyhold._

_That afternoon, she boots up Istie’s dinosaur of a computer and opens an email to Fen’Harel._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen translations:
> 
> Da'reth Shiral: "Go safely in your journey" formal
> 
> Tas dareth: "Go safely as well" formal
> 
> falon: friend
> 
> An'daran Atish'an: a formal greeting. Literally "The place you go is a safe place."
> 
> Era'varlise: Hearthfire. The holiday for Sylaise.
> 
> Shem: short for shemlan, which means "quickling." In modern Thedas, I imagine the old meaning has disappeared and it's now just a slur.
> 
> Fenedhis: a curse. In modern Thedas, probably the equivalent of "fuck"
> 
> Ir abelas: I'm sorry
> 
> Ma'vhenan: my heart/ my dear one
> 
> Shathe en'alas'dhea: happy birthday
> 
> Da'ghilan: little monster


	6. Sophomore Year, 1st Semester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who comments on this fic! It's honestly what keeps me going. It may take me a while to reply, but I will always try!

_Sophomore Year_

Ellana and Krem go halves on a cab to pick up Josephine from the airport. The squeal she lets out when she spots them at the luggage carousel nearly deafens them, and she leaps into Ellana’s arms, almost toppling them both to the ground

“What am I, just the chauffer?” Krem complains, having already snagged Josephine’s gold and blue suitcase.

Josephine gives him two Antivan kisses on the cheek. “Don’t be jealous, Aclassi. I missed you, too. Come on, I’m _starving_. Let’s grab something to eat on the way out of here.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ellana spies Krem rubbing the blush on his cheeks as Josephine makes a beeline straight for a sandwich stand by the exit.

Hmmmm. She vows to keep an eye on this development. Maybe even make some bets with Varric.

 

She and Josephine get a different room on the top floor, though it looks exactly the same as their old room. Ellana helps Josephine hang a lush, turquoise tapestry across the wall and a gold mirror in the shape of the sun, both going away presents from her parents. Looking at them makes Ellana wish she had brought something to remember Istie by, like a pressing of one of her roses or a cross stitched pillow.

After the room looks like something from a catalog, full of bright colors and twinkling lights, they lay on Josephine’s bed and compare schedules.

“Are you really sure about this major?” Josephine asks, running her finger down the list of Ellana’s courses. “Programming? Physics? _Calculus_? Do you think you can handle all this in one semester?”

“We’ll find out,” says Ellana. Since she’s a good friend, she doesn’t voice aloud how the thought of Josephine’s foreign policy and comparative politics gives her a headache.

“Not to sound unsupportive, but this might be very difficult for you.”

“I like a challenge, Josie. Besides, if I can handle living in a human city completely alone for two years, I can handle one calculus class.”

Famous last words.

 

Ellana gives herself a week before she admits that she might have massively fucked up. On paper, the Computer Science course progression didn’t look particularly scary, especially after Dorian gave her a brief run-down of the classes.

But actually sitting in _Calculus with Analytic Geometry 1_ is an entirely different story.

Just the syllabus alone looks intimidating enough to give her heart palpitations.

_Continuous Function._

_Implicit Differentiation_.

It sounds like a foreign language to her. Like nonsense. And yet no one else in class looks uneasy about it. They probably learned a lot of this in their high schools. This is all probably just review for them.

_Stop it_ , Ellana tells herself. _You are not going to freak out about this. You knew this was going to be hard when you signed up for it. Suck it up and study a lot._

After defending her choice over and over again to Istie, to her friends, to Dorian, Ellana can’t back out now. Despite their good intentions, something about her friends’ lack of faith rubs her pride the wrong way.

So what that math is hard? So what that Ellana is definitely a Humanities girl? That doesn’t mean she can’t do it and it doesn’t mean that she should just walk away the second something isn’t easy for her.

 

_To:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_From:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_Subject:_

_Dear Fen’Harel_

_Okay, so. I’ve got a confession to make: I finally picked a major and its computer science._

_I know. I know what you’re probably thinking because it’s the same thing that everyone else is thinking. It’s insane, it’s way out of my league, it’s not my passion so what the fuck am I thinking?_

_Well, I’m thinking that I’m not going to graduate with a degree that’s fun but useless and go back to being poor. And as much as I love history, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do with a history degree except go to grad school to get another useless history degree. So I picked computer science because the job market for that major is ridiculous. I could go anywhere I wanted with it._

_But, and I am only ever going to admit this to you, I think I might be in over my head here._

_Not, like, barely over my head and all I would need to do is kick up a little to reach the surface. I mean, rocks tied to my feet and then dumped in the deepest ocean kind of over my head._

_The rest of my classes are fine. It’s all this fucking math that’s going to kill me. It’s only been a couple of weeks and already I’m totally lost. And this is supposed to be the easy, intro math class. It’s only going to get harder from here on out._

_But I can’t back out now. I don’t want to quit just because something is hard and I’m sure as hell not going to be one of those career students who jumps from major to major and never accomplishes anything._

_It’s just that I’ve never in my life encountered something that I couldn’t learn after putting in a little effort. And right now I’ve never felt as stupid as I do sitting in that Calculus class. I study and I take notes and I work out all the example problems and I do extra problems on the homework and it doesn’t make any difference._

_I’m sorry if this is coming across as really whiney. I just don’t want to say any of this to my friends because they all kind of hoping that I fail so hard that I come to my senses and start being a history major. I’m not proving them right._

_Though I might if I flunk this upcoming Calculus quiz._

_Yours,_

_Ellana_

_To:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_From:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_Re:_

_I must admit, your major is a surprise. I had hoped that you would use Skyhold to explore your passion for history, but there are no parameters or rules to which degree you wanted. If Computer Science will give you the stability you desire, then so be it._

_It will be an uphill battle for you, but what little I know of your life experiences show me that adversity does not deter you from your goals. In my experience, anyone is capable of learning anything, so long as they put in the effort. I have no doubts that you will master the skills you need for your upcoming career._

_Yours,_

_Fen’Harel_

 

He doesn’t forbid her from her major or try to change her mind, and that’s a relief. But the implicit disappointment still feels a bit like a slap in the face. Ellana tries not to think about it. He knows, the secret’s out, and she focuses on his support for her.

Until she read his reply, she didn’t realize how much that his support mattered to her. Not financially, but emotionally. She still knows nothing about him, but through their interactions, his opinion has become just as important as those of her actual friends.

Ellana will graduate with honors just to prove she can/

 

She is the last person finished with the Calculus quiz, double checking all of her answers. Dorian waits patiently, reading a book and sipping on an iced coffee. With five minutes to spare, Ellana places her at the top of the pile on his desk, a ball of anxiety sitting in her chest.

“Well that took about five years off of my life,” she says to Dorian.

She expects him to laugh. Instead, he looks troubled.  

“Ellana, just so that there are no surprises, I want you to know that you’re going to fail this quiz.”

The bottom of her stomach drops out, and it takes her a few moments to cobble together a reply.

“What are you talking about? You haven’t even graded them yet.”

“I don’t have to, I can just tell from your homework that you haven’t grasped the material.”

“I studied, Dorian, I swear –”

Dorian waves her off. “I know you did. That’s not in question here. You just have some gaps, and they’re getting in the way of understanding higher math.”

Ellana bites the side of her cheek to keep the tears from springing up in her eyes. “So, what, you’re telling me I’m just screwed?”

Does he not have any faith in her? Does he think she’s so stupid that she’ll never get Calculus? Is he ever going to give her the chance to prove him wrong?

“Heavens, no!” Dorian says, alarmed. “What I’m _telling_ you is that I’m going to grade this quiz, see which parts you don’t understand, and Saturday morning at eight you’re going to meet me in my office, carrying a latte with the most amount of espresso shots they will legally allow you to have, and I’m going to tutor you.”

Her mouth opens and shuts, but nothing comes out in the mix of betrayal and relief that swirl inside her.

“That’s – you don’t have to do that, Dorian.”

“I don’t have to do anything but stay Tevine and die. Eight o’clock sharp, Ellana.”

 

The legal limit of espresso shots in a single cup of coffee is nine. Ellana gets all nine, an order that costs her nearly twenty-five sovereigns. Not that she’s complaining. Dorian is already in his office when she gets there, dressed impeccably in a teal button-down Henley and black pants. Ellana looks down at her own cobbled together outfit of the leggings she slept in and a Skyhold U t-shirt.

“Do you ever not look like a runway model?” she asks.

“It’s my default existence,” he says, meeting her at the door and taking the coffee from her hands like a mother grabbing for her child.

She follows him inside and sits down.  “Why so early? Don’t you need your beauty sleep?”

“I have a conference call at eleven. I wanted to make sure we have enough time.”

“Is conference call code for having sex with Coach Bull?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ellana. He’s at practice until ten.”

Her eyebrows raise. “So, you’re finally admitting it?”

“Why not?” he says with a shrug. “It’s not as if the entire university doesn’t already know. Besides, the secrecy was starting to become a pain in the arse.”

“Does this sound like _commitment?_ ” Ellana braces one of her hands on her chest like a shocked grandmother.

Dorian points a rather sharp pencil at her. “You are not going to use my sex life as a distraction from math, young lady.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

With an eyeroll, Dorian takes out several sheets of blank paper and her quiz, which is curiously devoid of any red marks.

“You haven’t graded my quiz yet?”

“Oh, you definitely failed it,” says Dorian. “But I always drop the lowest quiz grade and you’re going to pass all your others so I didn’t bother marking it.”

Something twists in her chest at the sound of his confidence in her. She sits up straighter and grabs one of his pencils.

“Well. Show me where I screwed up.”

They work nearly two hours but by the end of it, Ellana understands the mistakes she’s made. Dorian had to go back and teach her concepts she had never learned in order for her to fully understand the current material, but he never made her feel inadequate or stupid.

“You’re really good at this,” she remarks as they’re finishing up.

“Well, I would hope so, considering I have two doctorates on the subject.”

“Not math. Teaching. Tutoring. You were really good in my Math 101 class. Have you ever thought about teaching first year math all the time instead of your genius doctorate classes?”

“I have,” he says. “I enjoy teaching. I’d teach all the freshmen in the world if they were like you. But not many students have the drive to work at their learning like you. Most of them want you to hand them a grade. I don’t have time for such nonsense. “

Ellana thanks him for helping her and he waves it off, uncomfortable with the praise. 

“Come back next Saturday if you’re having trouble with the homework,” he tells her before she leaves.

Ellana promises she wills, but vows to herself that she won’t have to. It’s not that she doesn’t mind getting help, even though it does dent her pride a little. It’s just that Dorian teaches full time and researches for the university and has a life and he doesn’t need to spend two hours a week on top of when he’s _actually_ teaching her to make sure she doesn’t flunk.

If she can’t pass this one math class on her own, then how will she get through the rest of her degree?

Instead of pool with Krem and Cassandra, Ellana grabs her math textbooks and tries to study the next chapter ahead of time.

 

If math proved more difficult than Ellana expected, then programming came her as easy as Elvhen. If she thinks about it a certain way, programming is just another language. It has its own structure and grammar and rules just like any other language. Reading it feels like deciphering some kind of spy code.

No, the problem with programming isn’t the material – it’s the people in it.

Namely her classmates. She doesn’t have a problem with Professor Blackwall, who’s got that gruff Lumberjack Dad vibe going for him. But Ellana is one of only two girls in that class and the only one who ever actually shows up. The stares she gets for both her race and gender become unnerving.

Having lived outside the Dales, Ellana’s gotten used to a certain amount of attention. This, however, feels different than last year. Every freshman prerequisite class had a random mixture of students from all walks and majors and soon the stares died down and she became just another classmate. Each class had a sort of comradery that came with being thrown into university and adulthood without any warning.

The programming class is smaller, the guys in it more familiar with each other. It feels like she’s snuck into some kind of secret club without an invitation. The stares keep up, even into the third week, and yet no one approaches her. Class is a lonely affair twice a week that leaves her missing the bickering between Varric and Cassandra, or morning coffee runs with Krem and Josephine.

Even on a campus as huge as Skyhold, Ellana sees her friends all the time, but she misses the comradery that came with studying together or sharing notes or comparing homework answers.

Though most of her classmates leave her alone, one boy in particular can’t stop staring at her. He sits behind her every Tuesday and Thursday, his gaze burning a hole in her. It distracts her enough to break her focus sometimes. But he says nothing to her, so she ignores him as best she can.

Until the day of their first test.

Ellana always hates the first test of the semester. Each professor handles tests differently, and she never knows how much to study until after the first one gets over with. That and trying to keep each professor’s random preferences straight. This one only wants things written in test booklets, this one only wants pen, that one only wants pencil, this one is all digital. Ugh.

She takes her time, even though it’s easier than she expected. He is the only student left when she finally turns in her test, and he gets up seconds after she does and walks out behind her.

Unease prickles the back of her neck. Was he waiting for her? She hurries her stride, and the young man pulls himself up to her side.

“Hey,” he says. “So that test, huh? Brutal.”

Ellana spares him a glance, surprised that he’s talking to her when she never heard a word out of him for a month. She debates responding, not wanting to encourage him but not wanting to go through him needling her for conversation.

“I didn’t think so,” she says, hoping that staying aloof and apathetic will drive him away.

“I mean, I didn’t think it was hard, but you were in there a long time.”

The first spark of her temper flares up at the casual condescension in his voice. She forgets to disengage and looks him square in the eye.

“So were you. And I don’t rush through any test, brutal or otherwise.”

He’s not much taller than her, definitely younger than her, the ghost of teenage acne on his chin. She can tell his human parentage more by the way his eyes linger in her tattoos than the curve of his ears. Underneath his cool exterior lies a hint of anxiety that gives her pause. What if he was just some dumb freshman who took four weeks to work up the nerve to talk to her and he’s too inexperienced to know how to talk to a girl without sounding like an idiot?

The boy shrugs. “Oh, I finished a long time ago. I was just admiring the view.”

It takes a moment for his meaning to hit her. “. . . _What?”_

He gives her a wolfish smile. “Come on. You think I sit so close to the front ‘cause I’m a good student? Nah. If I had my choice, I’d be in the back with my bros. But when I sit behind you, I can stare at those sexy ears all I want.”

In that second all benefit of the doubt flew right out the nearest window. Her anger ignites, fast and dangerous, heart thundering in her ears.

“My _what?”_ she says, voice low.

The only other person around is a girl in a crop top kicking the vending machine at the end of the hallway. No help – but also minimal witnesses. Ellana subtly checks for the ceiling for hall cameras when the boy slings his arm around her shoulder and bares her what he must think is a winning smile.

“Let’s get some coffee, yeah? Have you Dalish even had coffee before? You just drink tea or some shit, right?”

Nope. No way. Not today. Ellana ducks from under his arm and takes a step back.

“I think you have the wrong idea,” she tells him, willing her voice to be calm. “I don’t even _know_ you.”

“So get to know me. I’ll let you in as close as you want,” he adds with a wink.

It’s like he can’t understand Common. Or, more realistically, he’s never been told no before.

“O-kay. That’s enough. Take your teenage fantasy somewhere else because you’re not getting it from me. I’m beyond not interested.”

She turns on her heels and heads back down the hallway to the other staircase, before she can do something stupid that’s going to get her into even more trouble, but a strong hand grips her forearm and spins her around. The carefree grin on the boy face had transformed into an ugly scowl.

“Not _interested?_ Do you think anybody else wants a stuck-up knife-eared hillbilly bitch like you? You should be thanking me.”

At first, she can only stare at him in shock. Is this _really_ happening? On a Tuesday after her programming test? What the fuck?

Ellana jerks her arm out of his grip and shoves him so hard he stumbles back and nearly trips.

“Who said you could touch me?” she yells. “Back _off_ before I kick your ass.”

He raises his fist to hit her, cold fury flashing in his eyes. Before she can react, a yellow and red figure steps in between them and knees the boy in the groin with a sickening thud.

The boy falls instantly to his knees, gagging. Ellana looks up to see a slim girl with pointy ears that stick past short blonde hair—the vending machine abuser.

She stares down at the boy with her hands on her hips like a tiger gazes at a tiny, pathetic mouse.

“Listen, piss ant, if this lovely lady here wanted your dipshit frat-bro dude hands on her, she would have taken you up on your racist coffee date,” she says, accent thick and Ferelden. “Instead, it looks like she’s got half a brain in her head and has much better things to do than be the exotic wet dream of some fucking moron who’s only kissed a girl in Spin the Bottle in middle-fucking-school. So back the fuck off, yeah?”

The guy can’t say anything, too busy dry heaving on the linoleum. The girl rolls her eyes, as if in disbelief that she could, in fact, be more disgusted by him, and salutes Ellana before walking away.

Ellana stares at her retreating for in awe before hurrying after the girl without a second thought for the idiot puking behind her.

“Hey,” she says, running up to the girl’s side. “That was _awesome_. Thanks.”

The girl looks over at her and shrugs. She looks familiar but Ellana can’t place her. “Girls gotta stick up for each other, especially in this shite-tastic world. Besides, I know guys like him, the kind that think every woman on earth owes them something just for breathing. I try to kick them all in the balls.”

“Do _you_ want coffee?” Ellana blurts out.

The girl stops and gives Ellana the side-eye.

“That depends,” she says. “Is this like ‘hey you saved my ass let me buy you a drink’ kind of coffee or ‘guess what I’m a lesbian too!’ kind of coffee?”

Ellana flushes, not realizing how her offer came out. “Can it be a ‘teach me how to kick people in the balls so efficiently and let this be the start of a beautiful friendship’ kind of coffee?”

The girl grins brightly. “I’m Sera if you’re buyin’.”

 

Sera turns out to be exactly the kind of student Ellana thought she would hate. The elusive other girl in Ellana’s programming class, Sera only shows up to take tests or turn in the occasional homework, which she never makes less than an A on because she’s some kind of computer prodigy.

It’s disgusting.

“Why are you even _in_ this class,” Ellana asks, draining the last sip out of her latte. “Why haven’t you tested out or something?”

Sera shrugs. “’Cause then I’d be dealing with the snobby upper level profs who get pissy about the rules. Blackwall is chill. He lets me do my thing and trusts me to know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Yeah, but you could graduate early. Taking your time like this is just a waste of money.”

Sera lets out a bark of laughter that startles someone at the table next to them. “The government pays for my tuition, and I’ll waste their sovereigns every fucking day of my life.”

“I’d drink to that,” says Ellana, raising her latte.

 

Sera starts showing up to class more often after their coffee date. She sits behind Ellana, grinning at the creep from earlier when he passes her to squat with his friends in the back. Instead of taking notes or copying down the homework, Sera doodles obscene comics on her tablet or plays games on her phone or naps, stirring only to lazily correct someone when they answer one of Blackwall’s questions.

After a couple weeks, naps and caricatures of Blackwall with penises for hair fail to entertain Sera.  When Ellana gets bored, she usually chews at her nails or taps her feet or daydreams.

When Sera gets bored, fart noises erupt from various phones around the classroom, causing mass chaos as their classmates scramble to turn their phones off and swear their innocence profusely. Ellana has to bite her cheeks to keep a straight face. Blackwall doesn’t bat an eyelash, continuing the line of code on the board where he left off.

As class starts nearing its end, the farts increase dramatically until Blackwall can barely get a word out over the noise.

“Maker’s _balls,_ Sera,” he grumbles. “Just give me thirty seconds to wrap up.”

How Sera gets away with it without getting kicked out of class, Ellana has no idea, but she highly suspects that this isn’t Blackwall’s first rodeo with Sera.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Ellana says as they walk out of class. No matter her rapport with Varric or Dorian, she couldn’t imagine pulling a prank like that on them, especially _in the middle of class._

Sera stops to stick her tongue out at Blackwall, who gives her a cheery wave in return.

“I got us out of here ten minutes early! You should be thanking me. Actually, you should buy me a cookie.”

“Oh? Is that your fee?”

“I ain’t do nothin’ for free, babe.” Sera slips on her sunglasses, looking admittedly very cool as she strides through the courtyard towards the coffee shop.

 

Cookies are not the only currency that Sera accepts; humiliation works just as well. They’re sitting by the fountain in the courtyard in front of the Student Union, Ellana plying Sera with chocolate chip cookies while she looks over Ellana’s homework before class.

“Looks alright. Just remember to close off your brackets or you’ll fuck the whole thing up,” says Sera through a mouthful of cookie. She points to the part in Ellana’s code where the missing bracket would go.

“Oh. Oops. Thanks.” Ellana edits the code in her document and hits save.

“So, when are you going to let me get my hands on your girl there?”

Sera’s been eyeing Ellana’s computer for a couple of weeks now, leaning over Ellana’s shoulder in class sometimes to get glimpses of how fast it runs or whatever it is that makes it so special to Sera.

“I don’t know, are you going to program it to wake me up at two in the morning with a chorus of fart noises?”

“That’s a _brilliant_ idea. Saving that for later, thanks.”

Ellana rolls her eyes.

“But seriously, you don’t know jack shite about how your girl even works!” Sera continues. “How d’you expect to be a programmer when you don’t know what RAM even stands for?”

“It’s my first computer, cut me some slack!”

“Maker’s fucking _balls_ , are you joking? The Dalish really are savages.”

“Hey, fuck you,” says Ellana, but she can’t draw up any heat for it.

“Sorry. Whatever. If you let me get my fingers in your girl, I’ll tell you everything that’s inside her, eh?” Sera winks at her.

Ellana sighs. “Fine, but not before class. Besides we should get going soon.”

Sera checks the time on her phone. “Hold on. I’m waiting for something.”

“Waiting on what?”

At that moment someone in the most ridiculous chicken costume walks into the middle of the courtyard and starts flailing around the way Krem does when he gets really _really_ drunk. Every so often the guy will let out an unholy squawk and flap his arms. Sera cackles beside Ellana, delighted but suspiciously unsurprised.

This goes on for a few minutes before he waddles straight over to Sera, panting and _pissed_.

“You got your three and a half minutes,” he says, accent posh and obnoxious. “Do we have a deal.”

Sera wipes tears from her eyes. “Yeah yeah. You’ll get your stupid GPA. That was brilliant, though. Can I have an encore?”

“You’re positively – “ the young man starts to say but then bites his tongue. Judging by the sparkle in Sera’s eyes, she would have loved to hear what came next. “Thank you for your services,” he says instead, so stiffly that it sounds like a thinly veiled ‘fuck you.’

“Any time. I have loads of other costumes you can try.”

A red flush creeps up the man’s neck but he turns and walks away without another word.

“What the hell was that?” Ellana asks. “What service is he talking about?”

“Oh, I do some hacks for stupid piss-faced tits like him. In exchange, they’ve got to utterly humiliate themselves in public. It’s the best.”

“Hacks? Like what?”

Sera shrugs. “Stupid stuff, mainly. That guy wanted his GPA raised by, like, point two percent just so he can have a higher GPA than some rival of his.”

“You know you could get paid for stuff like that,” Ellana says.

Damn, if she had Sera’s skills and almost total lack of regard for rules, Ellana would make a _killing_.

“Eh, if I want money, I can _get_ money, if you know what I mean. These arse biscuits, though, they’ve got more money than they know what to do with. I could charge a thousand sovereigns and they wouldn’t even feel it. I want them to really pay, so I take their dignity.” Sera grins. “Trust me, seeing some spoiled trust fund brat squawk like a chicken ‘cause he can’t say no to me is worth more than what money can buy.”

“You’re a little terrifying,” Ellana says.

“Thanks!”

 

_To:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_From:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_Subject: I made a new friend._

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_Sera is in my programming class and, as it turns out, is certifiably bat-shit crazy.  She’s some kind of hacker genius who probably doesn’t even need a degree, but she got a full ride from the government. When she thinks Professor Blackwall has droned on enough, she’ll make fart noises or punk rock music come from the speakers. Yesterday she hacked the slide show somehow and had pictures of random objects that looked suspiciously like penises interwoven with slides about C++ code._

_To his credit, Blackwall just went to the next slide as if nothing was weird. It’s driving Sera crazy that nothing phases him. I’m starting to get worried at the lengths she’ll go to get a reaction out of him._

_Especially because I’m starting to think that she’s part of some secret hacker vigilante group. She hasn’t named dropped anyone, but a couple days ago all our emails were hacked with links to pictures of some professor in the Criminal Justice department hitting up high school girls for nude photos._

_It took about five seconds to fire him, and Sera ate about half a dozen cookies to celebrate. Apparently she’s the one who hacked into his photos and pasted them, all based on some dare or challenge a group of her “hacker friends” gave her._

_But Varric says that’s exactly the kind of social justice the Red Jennies do._

_Hmmmm._

_Don’t worry, I’ve already made a mental note not to piss her off ever. But so far she’s been really fun. She also taught me everything about how my new laptop works, and looks over my homework to make sure I don’t screw up._

_Math still sucks. Midterms are coming up and I’m trying to be a good girl and not have another “freak out” but I cannot fail that test after all the extra hours Dorian’s put in to tutor me._

_Wish me luck next week!_

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

Midterms come swiftly and mercilessly. Ellana refuses to go to Dorian for help, so she locks herself up in the library again, looking up video tutorials online when the textbook fails to help her understand. She works extra problems in the back from previous homework assignments, and every time she thinks she’s gotten the hang of it, she flubs the next three problems.

It’s enough to make her want to tear her own hair out. If only she could _talk_ to someone, to work out what’s in her head out loud, but Krem looked like he wanted to vomit when he saw her math and Josephine told her upfront that she wasn’t in a math degree for a reason, and Cassandra hadn’t done Calculus math in at least fifteen years.

A text from Sera buzzes on her phone.

                              _Hey Inky, where you at?_

The nickname started a few days ago, as some kind of friendly jab at her tattoos. Ellana texted her reply.

                              _Stuck in the library. Second floor, back right corner by the poetry._

_Well that’s stupid. Go buy me a cookie before all the white chocolate chip sells out._

_As much as I would love to, I have to study for my math midterm and it’s_ killing me

It hits Ellana as she waits for Sera’s inevitable roasting over her study habits; Sera is in the same degree program as her. She had to have taken this math and passed it, or at least know it well enough to pass it whenever she felt like showing up for class.

                              _Can you come over for a second?_

It takes Sera fifteen minutes to find her.

“Ugh this place is awful,” she mutters, setting her bag on the table. “Books _everywhere_. You can’t get away from them.”

“I know right? Books in a library – it’s an epidemic.”

Sera just rolls her eyes. “Why d’you even _need_ books? That’s that the internet is for.”

“For the sake of our friendship, I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say that.” Ellana slides over her homework to Sera. “Do you know how to do any of this shit?”

Sera scans the paper. “I mean, yeah, I took this last year. It was easy.”

“Could you explain number fifteen? I don’t understand how they got that answer.”

Frown lines furrow in Sera’s forehead. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help you, yeah? I’m just really shite at explaining this stuff. I’d probably just make things worse.”

Her stomach sinks, but Ellana smiles anyway. “Oh. That’s okay. I’ll muddle my way through, I always do.”

Sera groans. “Oh shite, okay. I know someone who can help you. He’s brilliant, but he’s really frigging annoying.”

“I would take Fen’Harel himself if that meant I would pass this test,” she says, hope blooming fragile in her chest.

Sera blinks. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Take me to this annoying but brilliant friend of yours.”

“Ugh. No. He’s not my friend. Let’s make that very clear,” mutters Sera.

Deep in the Student Union, on the second floor, is apparently a room full of math tutors. Why no one ever bothered to tell her about this, Ellana has no idea. It a big room, full of circular tables with a laptop at each and a basket of paper and pencils. Students are stationed at each of the tables, some already conferencing with other students. You can tell which is the tutor and which is the student by the aura of frazzled nerves that projects from one of them.

One young elf at a table near the door looks up and bursts into a wide smile at the sight of Sera, wrinkling the long black tattoos on the side of his face. Ellana’s heart skitters at the sight of them for a brief moment, but they aren’t vallaslin.

“Don’t you dare get up,” Sera warns, but the young man ignores her entirely and comes over and wraps Sera up in a hug that nearly lifts her off the floor.

“Ugh! Get _off_.” Sera hits at his back uselessly. “I hate it when you do this.”

“Which is why I love it,” says the elf, his Antivan accent as thick as Josephine’s. He sets Sera down and looks over at Ellana. “And who is this enchanting woman you bring before me?”

Sera rolls her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas, perv. She’s a friend and she needed some help.”

Ellana sticks her hand out. “I’m Ellana Lavellan. Sera and I have Programming together.”

The elven man takes her hand and kisses it with a bow. “I am Zevran Arainai, Sera’s older, better looking brother.”

Ellana’s eyes dart between the two of them, trying to compute this. Not all siblings have similar features, but they definitely don’t have wildly different accents.

_“Foster_ brother,” Sera huffs immediately. “We’re not related at all, we just lived in the same foster home for, like, five years.”

“We are related by the bonds of life,” Zevran insists, wrapping an arm around Sera’s shoulders and giving her a loud, smacking kiss on the top of her head.

This earns him a swift jab in the kidneys, which he takes with barely a wince.

“I hate you,” mutters Sera, but there’s no heat in it.

“And I love you.”

“You love literally everyone, that doesn’t even mean anythin’!” Sera gives Ellana a disgusted look. “He’s a complete whore, just so ya know. He’s probably got like fifteen STDs by now.”

“I take offense to that. I’m a _clean_ whore, thank you. And it’s not my fault that everyone finds me so attractive.”

“You could look like a bogfisher for all I care,” Ellana says, “just as long as you know math.”

“Ah. A woman more interested in the mind than the body,” says Zevran, grinning. “You’re in luck, because my mind happens to be my second most most valuable asset. I would show you my first, but we are in public.”

Sera snorts at that, but Ellana is not deterred. He must be good at math if he’s working here, right? They don’t just let anybody waltz in and tutor unsuspecting students. She just hopes that he won’t spend the entire time flirting with her instead.

“What class are you having trouble with?” he asks Ellana.

“Calculus with analytical geometry.”

“Ah. Not an easy class, my friend. Just sign your name and the time on that clipboard over there and we’ll get started.”

To Ellana’s surprise and relief, Zevran gets right to work once they sit down, looking over her study guide and homework problems.

“I would recognize Dr. Pavus’ study guides blindfolded,” he says. “His A’s are not easily earned.”

“You know Dori – Dr. Pavus?”

“I’ve had his classes before. He has a beautiful mind – and a stunning body to match. Alas,” Zevran sighs. “He will not date the students. I have tried.”

Ellana could only imagine the amount of ridiculous posturing and flirting that would go down if those two were ever in a room together. But instead of elaborating, Zevran returns his attention back to her work. He circles the steps in her carefully laid out problems where she went wrong and reworks the problems with her.

Zevran is not only incredibly intelligent, but also patient and kind. He never makes her feel stupid when she gets something wrong and his flirtations stop the entire time they’re working. After an hour, Ellana calls it quits, her brain frying from too much math in too short a time.

“I believe you have a handle on it,” Zevran says. “You won’t fail the midterm.”

“I started out wanting all A’s, but I think not failing is my new standard,” says Ellana glumly.

“Anything you work hard for should be rewarding, no matter what standard it meets. I have all the faith in you.”

She barely knows him, but the sincerity in his voice warms her. Whatever she thought Zevran might be when he bowed and kissed her hand, this was not it. She gives him a grateful smile. “Thanks for all your help.”

He bows again. “I could never refuse a lady in need. Come tell me how you do on your test, my dear.”

 

Dorian is a shitbag (Sera has provided Ellana with all manner of interesting insults. This is her current favorite.) The week after midterms he stops class five minutes early to tell everyone their tests will be handed back next class.

“And Ellana, a word, if you will?” he asks, as the other students pack up their things.

Not a few give her pointed or suspicious looks as Ellana waits for them to clear out.

“You know, you’re starting to kind of show that favoritism vibe,” Ellana points out as she approaches his podium.

“Oh, it’s blatant favoritism, but since you’re the only student I like, I really don’t care.” Dorian rummages around in his leather bag and pulls out Ellana’s midterm, keeping the score conveniently out of sight.

“You graded my test early?”

“I graded your test _first_.”

Ellana bites back a smile. “How did I do?” It’s hard to keep her voice nonchalant. She’s had nightmares the last couple days of failing so abysmally that Dorian kicks her out of class.

“I have good news and bad news.”

Her stomach feels like a lead weight is dropped inside. “ . . . okay.”

“Bad news: you didn’t get an A. Good news . . . ” He flips her test around to show her the score.

It’s a B.

Ellana could cry. Instead she shoves him.

“What the hell, Dorian! That was messed up.”    

“I’m sorry, darling, I couldn’t resist. But I do want you to know that I’m proud of you and how hard you’ve worked.”

A blush starts creeping up her neck. “It wasn’t just my work,” she says. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Not just my help, from the looks of this test,” Dorian says, giving her a pointed look. “I’ve seen you go in and out the Math Lab. Tell me, who are you cheating on me with?”

The blush deepens into something that feels a little like shame. “Zevran Arainai.”

“ _Kaffas,_ you can’t be serious! How low you’ve sunk, Ellana.”

“What? He’s my friend’s brother. He was very helpful,” Ellana crosses her arms. “He certainly remembers you.”

“I bet he does,” says Dorian with an eyeroll. “I’m certain flirting with me was the only reason he ever bothered to show up for class. He certainly didn’t need the instruction. But, if he knows how to help you better than I, then I suppose I can’t object.”

There’s a hint of genuine hurt in Dorian’s voice. It makes Ellana squirm. “It’s not that he’s better, Dorian. I just felt bad that you were wasting so much of your free time on trying to help me. I know you have better things to do.”

“Ellana, you idiot, I don’t consider helping my friends a waste of time. I know this might sound unbelievable, but good friends for me are hard to come by. I take care of the ones I’ve got.”

“We’ve only known each other for, like, a year,” she says, though she’s unexpectedly touched by his sentiment.

Dorian shrugs. “It doesn’t take me long to make my mind up about someone, trust me.”

She smiles at him. “Well, as your _friend_ , I want you to have more time to spend pretending that you and Iron Bull aren’t just straight up dating.”

“We aren’t. It’s a purely sexual arrangement, no feelings involved.”

Ellana pats his shoulder. “Okay, Dorian. Okay.”

 

Dorian’s jokes, cruelty aside, do nothing to prepare her for a professor who’s _actually_ serious. And, of course, it’s the most terrifying professor in all of Skyhold.

Early Modern Sculpture ends normally enough. Sten writes the reading assignment on the board and starts packing up while the rest of the students scurry out without a backward glance. Ellana stands up to join them when Sten looks up.

“Serah Lavellan, I would like word with you.”

Ellana goes stone cold, feeling like a tiny rabbit in the eyes of a snake. It’s difficult to tell, but Sten does not sound happy with her and she immediately runs through the last few days, looking for anything she could have done to offend him.

“Yes?” she says, her voice actually squeaking.

Sten looks outside at the next class lingering in the hallway. “My office, if you will.”

Though Dr. Sten’s office is just the next floor up, it’s the longest fucking walk of her life. He says nothing the entire way, his only interaction with Ellana is gesturing to allow her up the stairs before him. The silence lingers after he opens the door to his office (which remains unlocked. Either his coworkers are very trustworthy or they are as terrified of Sten as the rest of the student population).

Besides two framed paintings – Ellana recognizes one as a reprint of _The Banks of Seheron_ by notable Impressionist Ginevra De Fidellis – the office holds nothing decorative or personalized. The smooth oak desk is spotless, the pen holder, mousepad, and mail tray arranged in perfect symmetry.

Sten reaches into the mail tray and pulls out a stack of printed essays.

“Two weeks ago, I assigned an essay and these are the responses,” he says. “Yours is not in here. Explain.”

Realization zaps her like a bolt of lightning. In the insanity of studying for Dorian’s midterm she had totally forgotten to turn in her essay on the various depictions of Shartan during his resurgence in popularity during the Early Modern Period.

“Oh shit,” she says, closing her eyes.

“Indeed. I admit, I am surprised at this lapse in judgement. It is not like you,” says Sten. “Is everything  . . . satisfactory this semester?”

Satisfactory? It takes a moment for Ellana to understand that Sten is asking, in his own way, if she’s alright.

“Everything is fine,” she says hurriedly. “I just . . . I’m in this Calculus class and it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be and I spent so much time studying for the midterm that I totally forgot about this assignment. I have it done, I just never printed it out. I’m really sorry.”

“I see. And how did you do on this Calculus midterm?”

“I – I got a B.”

Nothing in his face changes, but he nods his head in acknowledgment.  “If you email me your essay I will still accept it, though I will take off a percentage of your total points for tardiness.”

Ellana’s eyebrows raise. Sten makes it clear in every syllabus that late work is unacceptable. “Really? That’s – thank you. That means a lot.”

He looks deeply uncomfortable with her praise. “Do not let it happen again and do not speak of it. Have you any further questions for me?”

Ellana shakes her head.

“Then I will allow you to be on your way.”

It takes several minutes for her heart rate to come down from that meeting, but she leaves smiling.

 

_To:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_From:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_Subject: Midterms can kiss my ass_

_Dear Fen’Harel:_

_I PASSED MY MIDTERM._

_Well, I passed all my midterms, but more importantly I PASSED MY CALCULUS MIDTERM._

_It took a lot of tears, two math tutors, and a couple sessions with Coach Bull and the punching bag, but I pulled through with a B. Usually I’m only satisfied with A’s, but you would have to pry this B out of my cold, dead hands._

_I have never worked so hard in my fucking life at something. Varric even threw a little party for us at the Hanged Man (Cass took my phone or else you would have gotten another drunken email, haha)._

_Now only thing harder than my Calculus class is trying to buy something for my Antivan math tutor. I just wanted to do something small to thank him, but apparently, Antivans don’t do small._

_According to Josephine, the things Antivans buy each other are five hundred sovereign bottles of wine or an assassination. And according to Sera, who is Zev’s sort of adopted sibling thing, Zevran loves twenty-four carat gold and sex._

_And here I was, thinking I could get him some cookies or pencils with funny sayings on them._

_Have you ever met an Antivan? Are they all this ridiculous?_

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

_To:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_From:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_Re: Midterms can kiss my ass_

_Dear Ellana,_

_I am glad to hear of your success, though I never doubted it. I have always admired your dedication and determination to do your best. Not many people have the tenacity you do._

_And I have not had the pleasure of calling an Antivan “friend”, but I have worked in Antiva before. They are a very passionate people, it’s true. Nothing is done or felt by halves. I distinctly recall a party involving a tray of chocolate rum balls so sublime that no less than four fist fights erupted over them. Perhaps such a desert would be more in your wheelhouse._

_Yours,_

_Fen’Harel_

_To:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_From:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_Subject: Rum balls are apparently good enough to die for_

_Dear Fen’Harel_

_Your tip about the rum balls paid off! I asked Josephine and she got the recipe from her family. Apparently her grandmother made a rum ball that directly caused a stabbing. It’s surprisingly easy to make them. The hardest part is having them sit in the fridge for two days and not wanting to scarf them down while you wait._

_Anyway, Zevran loved the rum balls, and he loved Josephine even more. They hit it off immediately, talking about what part of Antiva they were from, the latest trends from some fashion show in Antiva City, where to find the good wine here in Skyhold. Eventually their conversation dissolved into pure Antivan and I lost it._

_He kissed her fingers before we left, but then again, he kissed mine. It’s hard to tell with Zev what is real flirting and what is just his personality._

_Anyway, thanks for the tip. Zevran loved them so much I thought I was going to have to leave the room to give him some alone time._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

You would think the threat of getting one’s balls crushed again would curb any further harassment.

You would be wrong.

About three weeks after midterms, she and Sera and Zevran walk out of the coffee shop with identical chocolate mocha frappes and nearly bump into the boy from class and two of his friends.

“See, dude, I told you she was just a dyke,” says the one with frosted tips in his hair.

(Frosted tips? Creators, even the most isolated, backwoods Dalish hillbilly knew better than that).

She freezes in her steps, fingers tightening on her cup.

Whatever. Ellana doesn’t want to give this idiot any more attention than he’s already gotten. She wants to walk past him, telling a joke to Sera, as if he doesn’t exist, as if he doesn’t pout sullenly in the back of her class anymore while Sera sits behind her and twirls the hair from her pony tail around a pencil.

“No such things as dykes, just women who haven’t been fucked right,” says the boy from class, staring straight at Ellana.

Any desire to ignore him vanishes.

Her ears ring. Her heart thuds heavily in her chest. An angry flush crawls up her neck. All bad signs.

_I’m about to get expelled or arrested_ she thinks before she whips around and stalks up to him. He actually takes a step back in the face of her anger (it helps that she’s tall enough to look him in the eye), but Ellana digs her fingers into his shirt front.

“I don’t know who the _fuck_ you think you are and I really don’t care, but you’re never going to talk about me or my friends like that ever again just because I told you no. This ends _now_ or I swear to the Creators I will fuck you up so badly your own mother won’t recognize you.”

She is so _furious_ she can barely think, and it takes all her willpower not to throw the boy down on the ground wail on him. She doesn’t want to have to explain herself to the campus police or, even worse, _Fen’Harel_ , and this time there’s no Varric to vouch for her. Not to mention she’s outnumbered.

The boy gapes at her like a fish she had once dragged out of the river with her hands, and it’s clear no woman had ever spoken to him like this before. But one his friends grabs her wrist, digging his thumb in her pulse point hard enough to bruise, and yanks her close to him.

“Oi!” Sera yells.

“Backwoods knife-ear cunts like you have their place,” the guy hisses at her, “and I will show you – “

But Ellana will never find out just what his intentions are because a fist jabs into his throat like a bullet. The guy collapses instantly, choking and coughing, and Zevran hooks an arm around Ellana’s harasser and bends his head close.

“Listen here, my desperate and ill-mannered compatriot. One, you will never get a woman if you have no respect for her or, quite frankly, for yourself if you’re that desperate and easily wounded. Two, let the matter drop. Take your wounded pride and go elsewhere. If I see or hear of you or your friends again, I will have to get _my_ friends involved in the matter, and they are not so kind and understanding as I am.”

Zev slips off the fingerless gloves he always wears to reveal a simple tattoo of a flock of crows on the back of his hand. Instantly the blood drains from the boy’s face and he jerks back, but cannot break out of Zevran’s grip.

“Do we have an understanding?” Zevran whispers, and the darkness in his voice makes Ellana shiver. This is not the elf who strums his guitar in the hallways and kisses her fingers whenever she leaves tutoring.

“Y-yes.”

“Good.” Zevran releases the boy with a strong clap to the back before catching Ellana’s hand in his own and kissing the rapidly forming bruise around her wrist. “Come, my darlings, we have much better places to be.”

Jovial, flirty Zevran returns as if he never left, but Ellana doesn’t forget the shadow in his voice.

“What the hell was that about,” she demands once Zevran wandered off meet up with his friend and occasional fuck buddy Isabela in the library.

Sera darts her eyes. “Wha, Isabela? She’s like a female Zev. They bump uglies all the time.” She rolls her eyes, and the hint of jealousy might be intriguing if Ellana didn’t have other things to worry about.

“With Zev. What’s the tattoo? What friends are he talking about?”

“Oh. _That_.” For the first time since Ellana met her, Sera looks serious. She bends her head close to Ellana’s ear and whispers. “Zev used to be part of the Crows. It was a long time ago, when he was little. He snitched on a lot of them to get out. When we met he was put in foster care for Witness Protection.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Murder. Zev, who makes up songs about Ellana’s eyes and rescues spiders from the walls instead of squishing them and tells Sera he loves her once a day even though she swats at him and tells him to shut up. _That_ Zev has killed people? In the most notorious gang in Thedas?

Sera squeezes Ellana’s hand almost painfully, her eyes fierce. “Look, you can’t say _anything_ about it. Ever. He risked a lot to get himself out of that shite hole, and if he wants to wander around campus being a giant, singing, mooney-eyed tit, he’s earned it. And nothing is going to take that away from him.”

“I won’t. I promise.” Ellana can’t help but be touched by the ferocity of Sera’s protective streak.

No wonder that guy almost shit himself.

 

As the last two months of the semester sweep by, Sera’s pranks on Blackwall become bolder. One afternoon she skips class so she can cover his car in sticky note penises.  She rigs a bucket to rain confetti and gummy worms when he walks into his office. She changes the password to his email to _im_a_stinky_lumberjack_.

“You are going to get expelled,” Ellana tells her.

“Pffft. From _him_? He wouldn’t have the guts.”

“What exactly has he done to make you hate him so much?”

Sera looks at her in surprise. “What makes you think I hate him?”

“Are you serious? You’re constantly screwing with him!”

“Because it’s fun! Because he’s the only professor I know who doesn’t have his degree shoved square up his arse.”

Blackwall takes everything in stride. He keeps the password, wears the confetti in his beard without complaint, keeps one of the sticky note penises taped below his parking pass. Ellana had thought that he had to be on serious anti-anxiety drugs to never lose his cool.

As it turns out, he was only biding his time.

 

It starts after their last programming class before finals. Out of nowhere, the Orlesian National Anthem blares from Sera’s pocket at an ear screeching volume. Several passersby turn to give them dirty looks in the hallway.

“Did you screw up your own prank?” Ellana asks, laughing as Sera jerks her phone out of her pocket.

“This isn’t me,” she says, scowling.

“It’s coming from your phone.”

“Yeah, but _I_ didn’t do it!”

The more Sera fiddles with her phone, adjusting the volume, cutting the speaker off in her settings, trying to hard reset her phone, the louder the music plays. And when that song ends, another takes its place, this time a jaunty jazz single from decades previous.

“What the shit-friggin’ _fuck_ is happening?” Sera yells.

“Looks like you’ve been hacked,” says Ellana.

Sera glares at her. “That’s not possible. _I’m_ the best.”

“What about your, uh, red friends?”

“They don’t do this kind of thing. They prefer you humiliate your own self.”

“Well, do something, because that’s annoying as hell.”

“No _shite_ , Ellana!”

They end up putting the phone in Ellana’s backpack, buried under text books and binders, but it does little to muffle the noise.

“This is probably _karma_ from all the times you’ve hijacked Blackwall’s lectures,” Ellana says. “Do you think one of our classmates got annoyed enough to—”

“That fucking bastard!” Sera yells loud enough to disturb the pigeons in the courtyard outside.

She takes off for the Com Sci building, Ellana hurrying after because no way is she going to be left with this Creator’s damned phone. Sera worms her way through the hallways, people sticking their heads out of the doorways to glare at them, before stopping at Blackwall’s door. It was open, Blackwall sitting behind his desk with his feet propped up.

Waiting for them.

“Hullo, Sera. Do you have any questions about the final?” he asks sweetly.

Sera jerks the backpack from Ellana and yanks the phone out.

“Make it stop!” she demands, slamming it down on his desk.

“Why?” He leans back in his chair. “I’ve got a playlist cued for the next twelve hours.”

Sera gapes, almost in awe.  “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

“No, you have no idea who _you’re_ messing with,” he counters. “I run the computer science department, sweetheart, and they didn’t give me that job because I look pretty.”

By now Ellana is grinning like a loon and Sera looks like she wants to set his beard on fire.

“If you don’t like my set list, then I suggest you plug some headphones in and stuff your phone under the mountain of dirty laundry you college students no doubt have on your floor because I put my favorite song at the end and I’m not going to miss it.”

Sera points a finger at him, but no sound comes out. Then she closes her mouth and marches out, dragging Ellana by the collar. Blackwall gives her a salute, and she grins at him before following Sera out of the building. The long stream of obscenities that Sera lets loose is louder than the music. But Ellana doesn’t think Sera’s truly mad, though. Just secretly impressed.

The entire way to Sera’s apartment, the phone cycles through a Starkhaven man reading a menu aloud, three sappy love songs from at least thirty years ago, and a recording of Blackwall himself reading aloud the entire terms and conditions to Sera’s phone.

“I know exactly how to fix this,” Sera mutters, slamming the door open. She makes a beeline to a kitchen drawer and pulls out a hammer.

“No!” Ellana cries out, but Sera tosses the phone on the counter and smashes it.

“Hack that, you nug fucker!” Sera shouts.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Ellana stares at the shards of glass littering the counter and floor.

“Calm your tits, Ellana. I’ll get another one.”

“But all your stuff!”

Sera rolls her eyes. “I backed it all up. Maker, I’m not a fucktard. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have revenge to plan.”

 

As a sophomore, Ellana gets to schedule for classes two weeks before finals. She heads to Dorian’s office, humming some bawdy tune about testicles that Sera got stuck in her head. Between Zevran and Dorian, Ellana doesn’t stress about finals as much as she had midterms. Calculus still takes three times as much effort as the rest of her classes combined, but Ellana has a C average level grasp of the material and she’s learned to be satisfied with it.

In fact, part two of her Calculus class doesn’t seem so terrifying now.

Dorian holds his coffee up in greeting. Ellana has scheduled for the earliest time slot he offers, much to his annoyance. Once she sits down, he slides over a sheet of paper with his loopy handwriting.

“Here is what I suggest for your next semester,” he says. “Don’t worry, I included another art class from Dr. Sten, this one on frescos. I can’t deny you your semester dose of Qunari men.”

“At least it’s not a daily dose,” says Ellana, scanning the paper.

“Weekly, thank you. We’re both busy men.”

Most of the classes look on par with the schedule she’d been building her head, save for one.

“Dorian, I think you put down the wrong number for the next Calculus class. This says Math 111.”

A look of guilt crosses his face. “Actually . . . I didn’t. It’s a pre-calculus class, and I think that it would benefit you considerably if you took it next semester instead.”

Ellana just looks at him. “I thought I wasn’t failing Calculus,” she says slowly.

“You’re not. You’ll pass with a C, possibly a B, depending on how well you do on the final,” Dorian assures her.

“If I take this instead, won’t it put me behind?”

Dorian runs a hand over his face and then grabs a post-it note and a pen. He scribbles something and holds it up for her.

“This is math,” he says. “It’s a ladder.”

All Ellana see is a bunch of squiggly lines. “ . . . okay.”

“Shut up, I’m not an artist. As I said, math is a ladder. It builds upon itself. You use each rung to get to the rung above it. That’s how it supposed to work. But you . . . ”

He scribbles a second group of lines, this time with a big gap in between.

“You taking this upper level math is like trying to climb a ladder with the middle taken out, which I know is not structurally possible. Go to Varric if you want a sound metaphor. But you’re missing some of the basics and it’s making these classes much harder on you than it’s supposed to be. It’s not efficient for helpful to try and teach these concepts to you on the fly when you need help. I think if you took this class before any further math, you would be better prepared for what’s ahead. The math is only going to get harder, and I won’t always be around to teach it.”

The indecision must be written clearly on her face, because Dorian sighs and hands her the registration code.

“Just think it over, alright? It’s just a suggestion.”

 

_To:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_From:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_Subject: Fuck math and the Halla it rode in on._

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_So I’m torn. As you are well aware, Calculus kind of kicked my ass this semester. I’m still going to pass it, with a B or a C depending on how the Final goes, but it was, essentially, a nightmare._

_And this class was only part 1 of 2._

_Dorian has suggested that I go back and take a pre-calculus class to brush up on the basics that I didn’t get in high school so that Calculus part 2 won’t drive me to the brink of insanity._

_On one hand, this sounds completely reasonable. Dorian is right, the math only gets harder, I am missing pieces of it that’s made everything that much more difficult, ect ect ect_

_On the other hand, it’s going to put me behind more so than I already am. I chose this major late, and the classes I’m taking now I should have taken last semester. I don’t want to have to stall graduation for one semester just because of one class._

_And this might sound stupid and completely pigheaded, but I don’t want to take this class because it hurts my pride. I hate the implication that my backwoods Dalish education has failed me to the point where I need remedial math just to get through my classes. I hate that it implies that I can’t work hard enough to overcome that by myself. I hate that I would be in the class with the rest of the stupid kids who can’t get it either and I’ll probably be older than them by at least a few years._

_Ugh._

_I don’t really expect any advice for this. I’m mainly just complaining. Why have a diary when I have you, eh? And I know what it is I need to do, logically. I just don’t want to do it. It pisses me off too much._

_Thanks, as always, for listening._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

_To:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_From:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_Re: Fuck math and the horse it rode in on._

_Ellana,_

_I will not say which course of action is best for you. That can only be your decision. This is just to say that the pursuit of knowledge is never wasted and never makes one “stupid”. Nor is it weakness to seek a better understanding however you can._

_Good luck to you,_

_Fen’Harel_

_To:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

_From:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_Re: re: Fuck math and the Halla it rode in on._

_I signed up for the class. I hope you’re happy._

_Ellana_

_To:_ e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu

_From:_ fen_harel@tmail.com

Re:re:re Fuck math and the Halla it rode in on.

Dear Ellana,

I am.

Yours,

Fen’Harel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, but the idea of Sera and Zevran being foster sibling hackers together just makes my fucking day, it really does. Also I am very much NOT a math person or a programming person so anything that I get wrong is through my own ignorance, haha. Please feel free to correct me. 
> 
> If anyone wants to yell at me on tumblr, you can find me at blarfkey.tumblr.com. I'm still getting used to the idea of talking to people through social media, but I would love to answer and asks or messages that I receive. 
> 
> <3


	7. Sophomore Year 2nd Semester Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to cut this impossibly long chapter in half, or you guys would have been waiting forever and a day for an update. Test Prep Hell has descended upon my school and I am swamped with lesson plans and fifty billion meetings, so updates might be slower than usual. But I hope that by Spring Break things will settle down. I'm very excited about the next few chapters. Thank you to everyone who's stuck by me so far, and welcome to any new people willingly signing on to this train wreck. <3

Winter break dawns relatively mildly compared to last year. Oh, it snows. It snows twice a week at least, but nothing like the six-foot blizzard that buried them this time last winter.

Dorian ditches everyone, even Iron Bull, to some beach house owned by a friend of his. Occasionally he will treat everyone in the group chat to pictures of himself with a rainbow of cocktails, or strolling down the beach dressed in swim trunks and an unbuttoned Oxford, or reading trashy crime novels under a giant umbrella. Most of them feature the same man in the background, usually looking at Dorian with exasperated affection. But Iron Bull need not worry – apparently kissing Felix would be akin to incest, according to Dorian, as the pair had known each other since they were five.

Everyone else stays, even Josephine.

“My family is at my Aunt Ximena’s cabin in the Frostbacks,” she says. “I can’t stand that woman. Trust me, it’s more diplomatic if I stay away -- far away. Besides I can’t ski to save my life, and my sister Yvette makes fun of me for it.”

Apparently, homesickness does not extend to annoying family members.

It’s good to hang out with her friends without the stress of homework hovering over her like a dark cloud, especially Josephine, Cassie, and Krem. Last semester did not leave her much time to spend with them after they focused their separate majors.

Cassandra suffered the most from this. Ellana tried to keep up weekly coffee dates, but homework and tutoring and studying forced her to push those back more often than she liked. And when she had free time, Cassandra had tons of assigned reading for her literature classes.

“Would you like to grab dinner somewhere?” Ellana asks the first week they’re off.  “We could go to the café you like downtown, maybe duck into the book store?”

“I had other plans tonight. But if you would like to join me, you’re more than welcome to. Perhaps dinner afterward?”

 

The cemetery spreads half way up the hillside. They arrive just after sunset. At first Ellana was taken aback at such a morbid suggestion for an outing. No one Cassandra knows is buried here. But when they walk through the gates, what meets their eyes nearly makes Ellana’s jaw drop.

On every grave rests a candle flame. Thousands of tiny glowing lights carpet the cemetery like wildflowers. No other light besides the moon exists. Closer inspection reveals the candles sitting in paper bags lined with sand, but in the distance Ellana only sees the light.

It’s breathtaking.

“Come, let us walk near the top. The view will be better from there.” Cassandra suggests, her voice barely above a whisper.

Many people walk up and down the paved lanes, but no cars destroy the sight with their headlights or their noise. Ellana walks slowly, head craning around to see even more lights hiding in the dips and little valleys. Neither she nor Cassandra disturbs the peaceful silence with small talk. A few people try to take pictures of the sight with their phones, but Ellana doesn’t bother. No camera phone could accurately depict the simple beauty of these lights. Instead she tries to sear the sight into her memory.

They stop under a pine tree near the top of the hill. The whole cemetery spreads out before them, a sky of tiny golden stars.

“They do this every year for New Year’s,” Cassandra murmurs. “Each candle represents the light of the Maker, guiding their souls to him.”

Which sounded like typical Chantry crap – all flowery bullshit metaphors and no substance. But Ellana keeps her mouth shut because her people don’t even have graves or metaphors. Just trees.

“My brother died several years ago,” she continues. “For a long time, it felt like the Maker was all I had left to keep me going. I look all these lights and it helps remind me that my brother did not die alone or in vain. That one day I will see him again.”

It’s a beautiful sentiment, one that Ellana will not crush out of pessimism or her general discomfort with the Chantry. If all Chantry sisters had the acceptance and self-awareness of Cassandra, her drive to better herself, then the war with the Elvhen probably would have never happened.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” she says instead.

“Thank you for coming. I know it is it not . . . applicable for you.”

“It’s beautiful all the same.”

Cassandra gives Ellana one of her rare smiles.

 

Andrastians love the New Year. They feast and exchange presents and send cards and letters to everyone friend and relative that they can’t visit personally. They burn a ceremonial fire in special copper bowls when the sun sets and offer prayers to Andraste for the New Year.

Varric throws a dinner party for anyone left stranded at Skyhold over break, complete with bags of small presents, like flip flops for the communal shower and gourmet beef jerky.

Like last year, he invites Ellana even though she is as far from Andrastian as one can get. But unlike last year, Ellana actually attends. Varric takes her coat at the door in surprise and delight.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he says with a grin. “Glad you could make it. Was it too cold to frolic under the moonlight?”

“That and I won’t pass up the free food.”

“Atta girl. The spread’s laid out on the kitchen island. Help yourself.”

Krem, Josie, Sera, Zevran, and Iron Bull are already hovering around the food in the kitchen.

“Cassandra’s running late,” Varric announces after checking his open. “She is praying her respects in the Chantry, like a proper Andrastian. Us hoodlums, however, can start in on the chips and dip.”

Ellana notices that even a self-professed “hoodlum” still had a little fire in a delicate copper bowl sitting by the cracked open kitchen window.

Varric brightens considerably once Cassandra arrives, and has everyone gathered around the coffee table with their plates and drinks.

“As tradition, we should start with a toast,” Josephine says, raising her plastic cup of sparkling red wine up in the air. “Something you look forward to in the new year. So, to warmer weather and spring flowers!”

Krem holds his drink up. “To multiple choice questions on tests and not essays.”

“To freshmen who aren’t annoying little shits,” Varric adds.

“To more bread bowl days in the cafeteria,” says Zevran, which is a toast Ellana can get behind.

“Fuck, do I really have to get this cheesy?” Sera asks when the stares land on her next.

“Of course you do!” says Josephine. “It’s New Year’s!”

“Ugh. Fine. To . . . to cool friends with lots of money that spoil me with coffee.” Her eyes slide to Ellana for brief second.

 “To the unending victory of the Chargers!” Iron Bull yells, his whiskey sloshing over the edge of his shot glass in his enthusiasm.

Cassandra gives him a look before holding her own glass of wine up. “To meeting challenges with grace and determination.”

Everyone turns to look at Ellana.

“Um,” she says, pushing her cup up against Krem’s. “To . . . passing all my classes?”

“Hear hear!” everyone shouts and then they all chug their drinks, Ellana a second later than her friends.

The night wears on with games and conversation that gets steadily more and more drunk and ridiculous. Josephine, Krem, and Cassandra trade stories about childhood shenanigans in the Chantry during bored sermons. Iron Bull teaches everyone the Qunari version of Wicked Grace, which relies more on strategy and less on dumb, drunk luck, so Ellana actually almost wins.

As tradition dictates, the party ends at midnight. Once again, too much wine has reduced Josephine to a giggly, stumbling mess. Varric offers to let her spend the night in the guest bed and Zevran offers to help walk her to the dorm.

Ellana’s gaze slides over to the pinched expression on Krem’s face when he hears that.

“I think Ellana and I can handle it, but thanks,” he says to Zevran. “Trust me, this wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You know best, my friend.”

Keeping Josephine slung between the two of them, Krem and Ellana bid their goodbyes and step out, snow swirling faintly around them.

“Josie, can you handle the stairs?” Krem asks.

Josephine responds by pushing her nose into Krem’s throat and giggling.

“You smell good,” she sighs. “Boys always smell nice. I wish I could wear boy perfume.”

Krem makes a strangled noise. “Josie. The stairs.”

“Of course, I walk the stairs!” Josie mumbles. “So sleepy.”

“Alright, Ellana. On the count of three.”

Josephine lurches forward before Krem can even count down and almost does a front flip down the stairs. Only Ellana clutching the back of her sweater prevents Josephine from breaking her neck.

“So that’s a definite no,” she tells Krem.

Krem sighs. “Give her to me.”

He lifts Josephine up from the front and she immediately wraps her legs around his middle and her arms around his shoulders, settling against him like a baby monkey. She immediately closes her eyes.

Gingerly Krem walks down the three flights of stairs while Ellana follows behind, ready to grab him if he pitches over.

“Hey, guys,” comes Varric’s cheerful voice. He looms over them on the third story balcony. “That was very chivalrous of you, Krem, but there was an elevator on the other end of the hallway.”

“My hands are full. Ellana, can you flip him off for me?”

Ellana complies. “Krem sends his regards,” she shouts up to him.

Varric laughs. “Go home you crazy kids,” he says and then heads back to his apartment.

“Is she getting too heavy for you?” Ellana asks.

“Nah. Come on, I’m freezing my hypothetical balls off out here.”

Besides a handful of students creeping their way back home in the cold, they are alone, the sound of snow crunching under their feet the only sound. The warmth of the dorms almost hurts Ellana’s frozen fingers, and she drops the key trying to unlock the door.

Krem deposits Josephine carefully onto her bed. She had started snoring softly halfway to the dorm, so she remains oblivious as he tucks the blankets around her, his expression soft.

“Ugh, I am not looking forward to the walk home,” he groans, glancing outside where the snow has picked up. “I should have taken Varric up on his spare bedroom.”

“Stay here,” Ellana offers. “We’ll split the bed. It’ll be warmer that way, anyway.”

“That wouldn’t be weird for you?” Krem asks hesitantly.

“I’ve done it a million times. The Dalish aren’t squeamish when it comes to this kind of thing.”

“I’m too cold and tired to fight you on it.”

Krem shucks his shoes off and turns down the bed, crawling as far as he can to one side to leave Ellana enough room. Too tired to fish for her pajamas, Ellana toes off her boots and crawls in after him. If they both sleep on their side, it leaves them plenty of room.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” Krem murmurs to her, his hair falling into his eyes. “It’s more fun when you’re around.”

Ellana smiles. “Thanks. I’m glad I came.”

“You should do it every year. Andrastian or not, it’s a good an excuse as any to party.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Night, Ellana. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, Krem.”

It doesn’t take long for Krem’s breathing to even out, what little noise he makes drowned out by Josephine’s snores. Ellana lies awake for much longer, replaying the events of the past two days in her head.

Much as she values spending time with her friends, Ellana can’t help but think that Andrastian holidays are so _boring_ compared to what she’s used to.

First of all, the Dalish do not go to bed until the sun rises. Right now they are still out around the bonfire, dressed in their homemade Fen’Harel costumes to drive away the curse of his bad luck through dancing, song, and general mockery. Every year Mihris hides in the bushes, scaring the literal piss out of people stumbling into the woods for a bathroom break.

Secondly, the Dalish don’t plan around the future ahead of them. They use the New Year to reflect on the past. Grievances are aired, helped by all the drinking, and settled, either through conversation or an all-out fist fight. And at the end of the party, confessions of secrets that weigh heavily in your heart are written down and burned in the fire, so that you can face the year clean, without anything to hold you back.

Ellana has actively avoided any past reflection. This semester kept her busy enough to only entertain thoughts of the present. She’s thrown herself into her friends’ Andrastian celebrations when classes can no longer distract her, but she can’t run from it forever. Not to mention that having to go along with other people’s traditions made her feel awkward and guilty, like she crashed someone else’s birthday party.

Now, in the still hours of the night, old memories creep in, cumulating into a thought she has tried to bury since she returned to Skyhold, a reluctant confession.

Well, Ellana knows what do with confessions, especially around New Years. Maybe if she burns it, it will cease to haunt her. That’s what New Year’s is about, right? Set the past on fire and move on.

Slowly crawling out of bed, so as not to disturb Krem, Ellana walks over to her backpack and digs out one of her notebooks. She flips to an empty page and quietly tears out a corner. Then she scribbles out the intruding thought and tiptoes to one of Josephine’s highly illegal “decorative” candles. Neither Josie or Krem stir at the sound of the striking match, nor at the slight smell of smoke as Ellana sets the confession on fire. She holds it as long as she is able, watching the words black and curl, before dropping it into the candle.

In seconds all that remain are ashes.

 

_I miss being Dalish_.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Dorian is going to be insufferable now_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_I hate to admit it, but I think the pre-cal class Dorian conned me into might actually be a good idea. The first couple of weeks seemed almost too easy, like I was wasting my time, but now I’m starting to understand what I had missed in my other Calculus class. Last night I even went back into my old textbook and reworked a couple of problems I had missed before and they made more sense. He’s right – jumping too far ahead in math was like trying to climb a ladder with the rungs missing. Or make a puzzle with half the pieces gone._

_I can’t tell him he was right though – he’s insufferable enough as it is._

_But I think this semester is going to kill me significantly less than last semester._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana_

_P.S. Happy First Day! I know it’s late and I’m still not sure if you celebrate Dalish or Andrastian holidays, but I’m playing it safe. I pretended to be Andrastian for this holiday season, letting Josephine and Cassandra and Krem drag me to look at the decorations in town and eating the First Day’s feast with them. It felt . . . weird. But I have nothing to replace my own culture with, so I thought I would take theirs for a test drive. Still not sure about the results._

“So, I have some interesting new developments this week,” Ellana says.

Cassandra pauses the stirring of her latte. “Oh?”

“Yesterday I caught him smelling the sweatshirt Josephine borrowed from him once she gave it back. _And_ Krem keeps borrowing Josie’s Chapstick. He says his lips keep getting chapped, and yet he never seems to buy his own.”

“But . . . that is almost like a kiss!” Cassandra’s eyes go wide.

Ellana resists the urge to roll her eyes at her friend’s incredibly chaste idea of romance. “And it’s the fifth or sixth time Josephine has borrowed his sweatshirts. She used to steal mine.”

“Do you think she returns his feelings?”

It’s the same question that Cassandra asks every time they get to together and gossip about Krem and Josephine. Hope springs eternal that she will get to witness a novel-worthy romance unfold right before her very eyes.

“It’s hard to tell, still,” Ellana replies. “I mean, Josie is happy and friendly with everyone. And Krem is so subtle about it that sometimes I think they really are just friends.”

Cassandra snorts. “Friends do not carry each other across the freezing snow to tuck them into bed when they are too drunk to walk.”

“Awww, Cassie, you wouldn’t carry me bridal style to my bed if I got too drunk?”

“I would haul you over my shoulders like a sack of potatoes. And I would complain the entire time.”

“You are such a sweetheart, Cass.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and adds more sugar to her latte. They wander around the adjacent bookstore, Cassandra accumulating a small library of reading material as they go.

“Pretty sure the last of the snow is over,” says Ellana, trying to keep the stack in her arms from toppling over. “You don’t need to stockpile anymore.”

“This is for the plane,” Cassandra murmurs, more to herself than to Ellana.

“The plane? What?”

Cassandra doesn’t explain until they are both carrying the bags to her car.

“Next week I am taking an . . . unexpected tip to Nevarra,” she says. “I want to make sure I have enough to read on the plane and also to avoid people as much as I can.”

“Is everything okay?”

“It’s a funeral,” says Cassandra almost dismissively.

“Creators, Cassie! I’m sorry. That’s awful.” Ellana scans her friend’s face for signs of distress, but, as always, Cassandra keeps any weakness deeply buried.

“Not really. He was a distant relative. I haven’t seen him since I was a girl. But they require my presence, so I will be gone all next week.” She turns to Ellana and shows a rare sign of discomfort. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anymore, especially Varric, until I’m gone. I don’t feel like fielding his questions.”

Ellana nods. “Of course. He is a nosy bastard.”

Cassandra quirks her lips up. “That he is.”

 

Cassandra’s plane leaves close to midnight. She hands a spare key to Ellana and walks with a carry-on that contains far more books than clothes. Varric sniffs out Ellana before lunch on Monday.

“Is Cassandra sick?” he demands. “Dead? She didn’t show up for class this morning, and I’ve never seen her miss a class.”

“She flew home for some funeral in Nevarra,” Ellana says.

‘Why the hell didn’t she give me a heads up?”

“She didn’t want your five billion questions.”

Varric takes a seat at her table, squishing himself between Krem and Sera.

“Well I wouldn’t have to ask them if she would actually talk about herself. I don’t even know what her favorite color is!”

“Purple and red,” says Sera, eyes never leaving her phone.

Varric stares at her. “And you know this how?”

“She wears those colors, like, all the time. And her phone case is purple.”

Krem catches Ellana’s eye across the table. Krem and Josephine’s will they/wont’ they romance isn’t the only juicy gossip Ellana indulges in – Sera’s doomed infatuation provides many hours of riveting conversation.

“I see,” says Varric, looking a little mystified. Even after a couple of months, he still doesn’t know what to make of Sera. “Well, I’m still miffed.”

“Your miffed state of mind is duly noted,” says Ellana. “You want my orange?”

Besides pointed remarks about Varric, Ellana has kept her suspicions about Varric’s feelings for Cassandra to herself. There isn’t enough even to gossip about – Varric and Cassandra both play their cards very close to their chests (Varric literally and figuratively). But she files this moment away, adding it to the tally she keeps running in the back of her head.

 

Though Ellana has a meal plan, once or twice a week she still cooks dinner at Varric’s place. He had gotten spoiled by the food over the summer and she by the kitchen space, so they continued their arrangement even after classes started and Ellana moved back in with Josephine.

The Wednesday after Cassandra left, she and Varric are splitting a pint of ice cream in the living room, flipping through their phones while the news plays on in the background.

“The funeral for Vestalus Pentaghast was held today. Though fifteenth in line for the throne and not well known outside of Nevarra, the street to the Grand Necropolis was packed with mourners and spectators alike.”

Varric and Ellana both look up at the television, interest piqued. Throngs of people lined the street where the funeral procession carried an ornate, white coffin in a carriage drawn by pristine white horses.

“You see that crowd walking behind the carriage?” Varric says, pointing with his spoon. “That’s the entire royal family.”

Ellana’s eyebrows raise. “It’s huge! There’s got to be, like, a hundred people there.”

“A hundred and eight, but who’s counting?” says Varric.

“Vestalus had no heirs of his own,” the announcer continues, “but he is survived by his niece and adopted daughter, Cassandra Pentaghast.”

The camera zooms onto the unmistakable figure of Cassandra, _their_ Cassandra, just as Varric starts choking on a bite of cookies and cream.

Ellana pats his back as he regains composure, eyes never leaving the TV screen. Dressed in a black velvet dress that touches the ground, Cassandra walks regally with the rest of the royal family – _her_ family – her gaze never wavering from the carriage in front of her.

And if any confusion remained, the golden circlet that glitters in her hair destroys it.

The news anchor delves into a brief summary of Nevarran funeral practices, which Ellana pays no attention to.

“You are _shitting_ me,” Varric finally gasps once he catches his breath.

“No wonder she doesn’t talk about herself that much,” Ellana says. “How the hell do you even explain that?”

“I knew she was holding out on me, but _royalty?_ A goddamn _princess_?”

They watch the entire procession, ice cream promptly forgotten, looking for glimpses of their friend. Ellana tries to wrap her head around it, but it still doesn’t sink in, even when faced with the video footage of Cassandra mingling with the royal family.

Cassandra, obsessed with smutty romance books.

Cassandra, who sent Coach Bull sprawling on the ground with a lacrosse stick after he told her women shouldn’t be in the military.

Cassandra, who hustled Varric at pool.

Cassandra, who’s apparently a disgustingly wealthy foreign princess.

It just does not compute. It sounds like something straight out of one of her romance novels.

“I bet you right now she’s utterly miserable in that dress,” says Varric. “Look at her face. She wants to throat punch about twenty people right now.”

Ellana cracks up at the clearly miserable expression on Cassandra’s face. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen her wear a dress, actually.”

“And unless any more of her family start dropping like flies, it will be the last time.”

Ellana turns to him. “You are never going to let her live this down, are you?”

He grins in a way that is almost scary. “Not for all the sovereigns in the world.”

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Long lost princesses_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_Remember my friend Cassandra? She’s tall and awkward and can knock a grown man on their ass with just her fists._

_Cassandra Pentaghast is apparently **Cassandra Pentaghast** , part of the royal family in Nevarra. Like, holy _shit _. Varric and I had no idea until we saw her on the news in the funeral procession for some other royal Pentaghast._

_Varric is a little pissed that she kept that to herself for so long, but I can understand the secrecy. Cassandra, as much as I love her, is about as far from the image of “princess” as one could possibly get. I wouldn’t want the mockery either._

_The one person who isn’t surprised by this is Josephine, who apparently knew since the first day she met Cassandra. Even though the Montilyets aren’t royalty, Josephine learned the names of all the royal families still left in Thedas as part of her self-imposed “diplomacy training” when she was a kid. That she could also keep the secret with such a straight face probably means that Josephine will become one hell of a diplomat._

_Or professional spy._

_Cassandra doesn’t get back until this Sunday. Varric’s building a thousand and one jokes and nicknames to drop at random times for the rest of her life (or the rest of his if she doesn’t kill him first), but I think I’m just going to continue to act as though I don’t know. It’s what she wants, anyway. But I am sorry to say, you are no longer my wealthiest, most interesting friend._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana_

 

Cassandra returns to Skyhold as quietly as she had left it, appearing Monday morning with Varric, both making a beeline to the student union coffee shop.

“Cass!” Ellana shouts. She picks up her pace, rushing towards them, and throws her arms around Cassandra, whose arms flail for a moment before patting Ellana awkwardly on the back.

“Ellana!” Varric gasps, a hand on his chest. “Where is your decorum? That is a princess of Nevarra you’re manhandling!”

Cassandra steps out of Ellana’s embrace and glares down at Varric. “What did you call me?”

“Are you not Her Royal Highness of Nevarra, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena –”

“Stop!” Cassandra yells, thunderous. “Where did you hear that?”

Anyone else would have seen their life flash before their eyes at the glare on Cassandra’s face, but Varric just smiles sweetly.

“We saw you on the news. In the funeral procession.”

“No.” Cassandra closes her eyes, shoulders slumping. “Oh no. How many people know?”

“Just us,” says Ellana.

“By the way, did anyone ever tell you how stunning you looked in that velvet gown?” Varric adds.

Cassandra flushes, a deep red that she attempts to cover up with bluster and threats for Varric to keep his mouth shut. Threats that Varric replies with vague promises and lies and a complete lack of fear that drives Cassandra even crazier. Ellana walks behind them, watches the show, and wonders if she should talk to Varric about the meaning of irony.

 

It takes a few weeks after the start of the term, but Ellana notices the distinctive lack of the classmate who harassed her last semester (affectionately referred to as “Douchebag McGee” by Sera). At first, she chalked it up to there being more than one session of her programming class that he could belong in. But ever since he tried to get his friends involved, Ellana has kept tabs on him in the back of her mind, an awareness so she would be prepared to deck him and then report him if he ever tried anything again.

Thanks to Zevran, Douchebag McGee and Company were too terrified to even look Ellana in the eye for the rest of the semester, but she caught flashes of him in the Quad or the cafeteria or the Comp Sci building.

But not this semester. Maybe he transferred. Or maybe Zevran called in his favor . . .

“Remember Douchebag McGee,” Ellana asks Sera on their way to their programming class.

“Ugh, I’m trying _not_ to.”

“I haven’t seen him around campus this semester. Did . . . something happen to him?”

Sera has the uncanny ability to walk with her eyes glued to her phone and never so much as step on a crack in the sidewalk and she uses it now to avoid Ellana.

“Oh yeah -- he got expelled,” she says, thumbs flying over the keyboard.

“ _What?_ When?”

“Over break. They found some blog of his full of racist posts about everyone from elves to Tevinter. The one about Ferelden dog-fuckers was especially enlightening.”

Ellana’s eyebrows climb up. “Wow. He was that stupid to post all of it on the internet?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” says Sera and she is pointedly not looking at anything but her phone. “I mean, you met him. He’s not exactly the cream of the crop.”

Ellana gives her the side eye. “How did you find that blog?”

“It went viral. Everyone saw it.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You don’t have blogs. You don’t even have a ThedasBook for god’s sake. Of course _you_ didn’t see it.”

“Did you have something to do with this?”

Sera snorts. “Don’t be stupid. It would be illegal to hack into his blog and create a bunch of fake posts spouting a bunch of racist bullshit and then back date it to several months ago and _then_ have one post go viral and with a bunch of other fake social media accounts demanding answers blow up the Skyhold feed until the dean has to expel him in order to save their reputation.”

“Yeah,” says Ellana, grinning to herself, “that is very illegal, and you’re too much of an upstanding citizen to ever do such a thing.”

“Exactly fucking right.”

Ellana drapes her arm around Sera’s shoulder and they head to another day of book-learning and Blackwall-torture and Sera lets it sit there for a moment before shrugging it off.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Krem has made a new enemy_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_Did you know that squirrels can hold grudges? It may sound like the lead-up to a punchline, but I’m actually dead serious. Their tiny brains can’t remember where they hid their acorns, but they can memorize Krem’s face and follow him on campus, pelting him with acorns and sticks._

_I don’t know what he did to piss this one off, but godsdamn. It is relentless. I have never seen squirrels act like this before, but then again, I’ve only seen squirrels in the woods. Campus squirrels are a lot more fearless. They sometimes eat out of my hand, and they don’t get out of the way on the sidewalks unless you pound your feet real close to them._

_This squirrel acts like Krem murdered its whole family and it’s sworn a blood oath to destroy him. It’s ripped a sandwich right out of Krem’s hand. It throws things at him. It’s even tried to ambush him from the trees. Krem walks through the middle of the grass now, no matter how muddy or snowy it is._

_We can tell it’s the same squirrel because it has these little tufts of hair over its eyes that make it look like a pissed off old man._

_Krem’s been asking me for ways to make amends before he gets rabies, but I’m honestly at a loss._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana_

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: A rivalry that can only end in blood._

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_Today has been the warmest day since fall. Spring is upon us! Naturally, Krem and I took our studying outside and it went great for the first five minutes._

_And then a little squirrel hopped closer and closer and it wasn’t until it was too late that we noticed it’s evil white eyebrows. It jumped up on Krem’s textbook and I thought Krem was going to have a heart attack. He stood so still that you could barely see him breathing._

_But the squirrel was not out for blood today – he just vomited all over the book and then scampered off before Krem or I could react._

_Is this real? Am I in a children’s movie? Is there an evil Squirrel King directing any of this?_

_Your friend,_

_Ellana_

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Re: A rivalry that can only end in blood._

_Dear Ellana,_

_Have you or your friend possibly considered calling in animal control? They could detain the squirrel and then release it in the wild with no harm done. I fear what comes next in this terrifying tale. What if you become collateral damage?_

_Your friend,_

_Fen’Harel_

_P.S. What would a Squirrel King ransom you for?_

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Re:re: A rivalry that can only end in blood._

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_Animal Control is a no-go. Krem looked at me totally affronted for suggesting it and told me this was a “war between men” and that they would settle it like men, rather than running to the authorities to solve their problems for them._

_So I guess that means the Squirrel King will stay out of this skirmish._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana_

_P.S. I’m tempted to say nuts, but there a voice giggling in the back of my head that sounds very much like Sera, so I’m going to say dominion over the Quad, as any mad king might want._

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Cabin Fever._

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_I miss trees._

_Real trees, not the carefully manicured ones that dot the campus._

_The weather is finally warm and full of sun and flowers are popping up and I really want to go hiking. Like, real hiking. Deer trail kind of hiking, not walking down a sculpted dirt path in the middle of a cleared-off wood. But I don’t think there is any place like that here, at least not a place I wouldn’t get in trouble for trespassing._

_I have had the urge to go hiking before, but I’ve learned to kind of squash it, because Val Royeaux has nothing but cute little parks as the only greenery around that makes Skyhold look like the untamed wilds of the Anderfels. But with the weather changing and the flowers coming out, I’m starting to go a bit stir crazy. I’ve tried asking around, but Dorian and Varric only care about book stores and wine shops and Coach Bull can rattle off every gym in a ten mile radius, but none of them know or care about hiking or nature._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana_

_To: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_From: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_Re: Cabin Fever_

_Dear Ellana,_

_I’ve included screencaps from ThedasMaps of Anadal State Park. It’s roughly a twenty minute drive or bus ride from Skyhold University and it offers a wide range of hiking trails, from beginners to enthusiasts like yourself. If the urge to get up and stretch your legs continues, this place may have what you need._

_Yours,_

_Fen’Harel_

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Re:Re: Cabin Fever_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_Thank you so much for the tip! Cassandra and I checked it out today. The forest is gorgeous and after only five minutes of walking, I couldn’t hear the traffic anymore – just wind and birdsong. Walking around seeing nothing but woods for a good long while soothed the part of me that is always homesick. It’s not the same as being back in the Dales – the trees and the smells and the slant of sunlight is different – but it still restored something in my soul that’s been missing for too long._

_I’ve included some of the pictures we took. You can even see a blurry piece of Cassandra’s hand as she tries to cover her face (she hates having her picture taken)._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

“So, Josephine’s birthday is coming up and I have no fucking clue what to do,” says Krem. “What are you doing?”

“Spa Day,” says Ellana. “It’s a thing now. We get weird little cucumbers on our eyes and sweat in a wooden box and get massages. Then we go out for sushi. Her present is that she gets to drag me along.”

“Thanks, but that’s not very helpful to me,” Krem grumbles.

“Get her a gift card. You can’t go wrong with those.”

“A gift card?” Krem says flatly. “You want me to get an incredibly wealthy woman who could buy anything she wanted a _gift card_? Could there be a lazier, shittier gift?”

Ellana keeps her eyes on her soup and her voice nonchalant. “Is there any particular reason why you’re freaking out more this year than last year?”

“Last year we barely knew each other. All I had to do was get her a card with a baby mabari on it. Now we’re actual friends. The stakes have been raised. Besides, for _my_ birthday she bought me a pair of two hundred sovereign head phones. I have to at least _attempt_ to get her something nice.”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Sera appears, with a massive bag of contraband cheese puffs (food bought outside the cafeteria is prohibited) in one hand and her laptop in the other. “You’re talking about Josephine, right?”

“Of course he is,” says Ellana and Krem shoots her a Look.

Sera opens her laptop and pulls up a website before turning her computer around to show them.

“What is this?” Krem asks.

“It’s her BookNook.”

“Her _what_?”

Sera rolls her eyes. “It’s a website where people blog about their favorite books and make wishlists of books they want to read and shit. Look, these are all the books on her wishlist. Just get her one of those.”

Krem peers at the site, scanning each book.

“He’s got his thinking face on,” Ellana says.

“Shut up. How did you know Josephine had something like this? Did you hack her computer?”

“No, I didn’t hack anything! It’s a public blog.” Sera rolls her eyes. “Josephine reads a lot and she’s disgustingly organized, so I figured she would have something like this.”

Krem grabs a pen out of his messenger bag and starts scribbling titles on a stray napkin.

“Thanks, Sera. You’re a lifesaver.”

“I’m not done yet. I think I’ve got your squirrel problem figured out.” Sera’s fingers fly over the keyboard, pulling up what looks like a web forum. “Apparently, it’s not that weird to have freaky little squirrel rebellions on college campuses. Here’s an entire forum thread dedicated to college kids and their squirrel nemesis. I skimmed the comments, and I think _this_ guy has something that might work for you.”

She shoves the laptop over to Krem and he reads the screen, eyebrows climbing steadily up his forehead.

“I call bullshit,” he says, pushing the computer away. “He’s obviously a troll. There’s no way he actually did that.”

Sera shrugs. “Other people tried it, _they_ said it worked. But if you don’t want to, it’s no skin off my nose. Just thought I’d be helpful.”

Krem looks as if he isn’t sure whether or not to believe her.

 

_Krem: Hey_

_Krem: You got any peanut butter?_

Ellana looks blearily at her phone, squinting at the time.

1:34 AM

_El_ _lana: . . .yes_

_Krem: Can I come over and get some?_

_Ellana: OMG you are not serious. Sera is bullshitting you._

_Krem: Listen, this fucker has been screaming outside my bedroom window. It's either try Sera's batshit crazy scheme or lose my freaking mind._

_Ellana: Fine. I'll be out in the Quad in five._

 

Wrapped up in a sweatshirt and scuffed boots, Ellana sneaks across the quad to Krem’s dorm, feeling a bit like a cat burglar in a heist movie. As she gets closer to his window, she can indeed hear a strange screaming noise from high up in the trees.

“So, the post said to cover acorns from the tree in peanut butter.”

Krem’s voice appears in the dark somewhere beside her and Ellana nearly screams.

“Don’t fucking do that,” she hisses.

“Sorry.” She can barely see his profile in the light of a distant street lamp. “Anyway, supposedly you’re supposed to place the acorns in little pyramids as a trail from one tree to another.”

Ellana just stares at him. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“No shit. But at least seven people on that thread tried it and they said it got the squirrel to leave them alone. Apparently, this squirrel lives in the tree right next to my window and that pisses him off because of territorial bullshit. And if I lead him to another tree and he likes it, then he leaves this tree – and me – the fuck alone.”

“You know this sounds insane, right?”

“Oh, I’m well aware. But I am also really fucking desperate and I think Stitches is going to murder me in my sleep if I don’t fix this.”

Ellana sighs. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

They unscrew the peanut butter open and grab acorns from the little pile Krem collected. Ellana scoops the acorns in generous globs of peanut butter while Krem builds miniature stacks and spaces them out from the tree by his window to another tree twenty feet away.

It takes them almost an entire hour and over half the jar of peanut butter.

“Is that it?” Ellana asks, silently begging for the answer to be yes. Her fingers are cold to the bone.

“One more step,” Krem mutters. He pulls out a dog whistle. “This is supposed to get him down from the tree. Squirrels love the sound.”

He put the whistle up to his mouth and a few seconds later Ellana heard the distant barking of the dogs in the campus apartments.

Light flashes in front of them, bright enough to send them reeling. Blinking back spots, Ellana hears a familiar cackling.

“Andraste’s _tits_! I can’t fucking believe you fell for it!”

“Sera!” Krem growls.

He lunges for her, stumbling, but neither of them can see her between the flash of the camera and the darkness of night. Sera’s cackling grows fainter as she sprints away and disappears.

“I’m going to fucking kill her,” Krem hisses. He kicks viciously at the grass.

“Tomorrow,” Ellana promises, fighting a yawn. “I’m going to bed.”

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: It’s time for revenge_

_Dear Fen’Harel_ ,

_Attached is a picture featured on multiple blogs and the front page of our school’s website. It’s too blurry to make out the exact features of me and Krem, but trust me. It’s me and Krem._

_Sera took this picture after she somehow convinced Krem that the solution to his squirrel problem is to make little piles of peanut butter covered acorns and blow a dog whistle._

_She did this by making up an_ entire _forum thread about college squirrel attacks, including the fake accounts of everyone who commented on the original post and then crawled up in a tree with squirrel noises playing on her phone to wake Krem up in the middle of the night so he would be stupid and desperate enough to try it._

_And of course, I’m stupid enough to try and help him when he texts me at three in the morning._

_It’s genius, actually, and completely evil. I have to admire it._

_Krem isn’t mad at Sera so much as he is with himself for falling for it. But Sera has the uncanny ability to get into your head._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

 


	8. Sophomore Year Second Semester Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank the teacher's stirke in West Virginia for this extra fast update! I had an unexpected amount of days off, haha.

Midterms sidle in right before the spring break. They nearly catch Ellana by surprise. Three successful semesters and an ever-growing circle of friends has made Ellana take a more relaxed view of her studies. She no longer starts her homework the day it’s assigned or studies for a test two weeks in advance.

So, when Ellana walks in after her nightly workout with Krem to see Josephine sitting on the bed with her notes scattered around her like confetti, the realization hits her like one of Bull’s Chargers.

“Oh _shit_ ,” she says.

Josephine looks up from her tablet. “What’s wrong?”

“Midterms. Midterms are _next week_.”

“You _forgot_?” Josephine’s eyebrows raise.

Ellana dives for her desk, grabbing the binder reserved just for class syllabi, checking the assigned times and dates for each test. Her anxiety flares up, the sticky, hot fear of failure. If she buckles down now and skips coffee with Cassandra, she should make it.  She has two papers due and a hell of a lot of notes to study.

 

“Shhh. Quiet my friends. Here we have a rare sighting of the Ellana Lavellan in her natural habitat.”

Zevran peeks his head around a bookshelf, holding up his phone as if filming her. Ellana sticks her middle finger at him – not that such vulgarity would ever stop Zevran from posting it. He drops gracefully into the chair across from her.

“I would be careful when heading into your dorm tonight,” he tells her. “Sera has been most put out that you’ve been so busy this week. I fear something awaits you.”

 Ellana snorts. “There’s this thing called studying that us lesser mortals have to do to pass.”

“But do you know what you really need, I wonder?”

“On a scale of one to ten, how suggestive will this be?”

He grins. “You know, of course, that I would give you the most amazing night of your life if you would but just give the word. But no, I am suggesting you go dancing.”

Ellana’s eyebrows raise. “Dancing? Are you serious?”

“Have you not been dancing before?”

“Oh, I’ve been dancing,” she says, thinking back to all celebrations with her clan, the dances for spring, for harvest, for Fen’Harel. “Just not the kind that you’re thinking of.”

“When midterms are over, you should go with me. Let loose. Have fun.”

“I know how to have fun without looking like a total idiot in front of strangers.”

Zev gave her a smile that would melt the most snobbish of hearts. “When I dance with you, the only person you will think about in that room is me.”

Ellana laughs and shoves his shoulder. “Do lines like that actually work on people?”

“Would you like to find out?” He counters, his grin sharpening to something wicked.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I will take that as a yes.”

 

True to his word, Saturday evening found Ellana standing in front of the flickering sign of Club Rojarrio, a two-story building squeezed on the edge of downtown. Zevran has dressed for the occasion in dark jeans so tight they look like spray paint and a white shirt unbuttoned past his collar bone.

Ellana wears her jeans with the least amount of frayed hems and one of Josephine’s t-shirts, the black one with gold flowers on it. When Josie set off for Antiva for Spring Break that morning, she allowed Ellana full access to whatever wardrobe was left.

“This is as sexy as I get,” she had told Zevran flatly when he picked her up. He would never dare say anything to her, but the expression on his face alone told her exactly how pathetic he found her outfit.

“So long as you’re comfortable,” he had said, shrugging.

The bouncer at the door barely looks at their college ID’s. The second he sees Zevran he grins and waves them on inside.

“Come here often?” Ellana asks, eyebrow raised.

“I have a lot of frustrations to work out,” Zevran replies with a wink.

The inside of the club looks surprisingly swanky compared to its plain outside décor. The bar itself sits up in a second story balcony overlooking a live band and a dance floor packed with people. The music swells over them, fast paced with loud horns. Couples twirl and kick their feet up, and some were even swept up into the air like acrobats.

“I can’t dance like that!” Ellana protests.

 “I’ll teach you. Simple steps, my friend. It only looks hard.”

He drags her to the back corner of the dance floor, under the balcony of the bar and far from the watchful eyes of its patrons. Taking her hands in his, Zevran demonstrates how to move her feet, from toe taps to feet kicking out of the side. Then he twirls her, in against his chest back out onto the dancefloor.

Ellana used to love dancing with her clan. There could be no embarrassment around the people who had known her since birth, only freedom to go where the music took her without a second thought. Her dancing then had no steps, no plans, just joy and movement without thought.

It’s hard to feel that same abandon right now, in the middle of a crowd of strangers, with music so far from the kind she grew up on.

“You are holding back,” Zevran says, not unkindly.

“It’s . . . I don’t know these people,” Ellana says, looking over her shoulder.

Even in the corner of the dance floor there are still people all around her.

Zevran takes hold of her chin and turns her face back to his. “Pay no attention to these people. They are here for fun. They aren’t looking at you.” He taps her nose with his finger. “You are thinking too much. Close your eyes. Listen.”

She rolls her eyes first, but complies. The live music surprises her. All Dalish music is live, but humans seem to prefer theirs pre-recorded. Instead, the music now feels both old and new, and it’s catchy. The rhythm of it starts to trickle into her bones, starts to itch under her skin. The urge to move, even if she will look like a drunk halla, starts to override her reluctance.

“Let’s try again,” she says.

Zevran’s eyes light up the moment she starts getting into it, kicking her feet out the way he taught her, holding on to his hands as she jumps and twirls around. It’s half planned steps and half random insanity, but Zevran doesn’t seem to care. They dance until Ellana can hardly breathe and begs for water.

A total of fifteen men and women make a point to greet Zevran on their way to the bar. Some with wide grins, some with pouty lips and a couple with evil side eye stares at Ellana.

“Two bottles for my friend and I, please.” Zevran winks at the bartender. “Thank you, darling. It’s wonderful to see you.”

“How many of these people have you slept with,” Ellana asks as she leans up against the bar. “Just out of curiosity.”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells, my dear.”

“So, all of them?”

Zevran just grins.

 

They don’t get home until well after two in the morning. Ellana collapses into bed and sleeps until noon the next morning, something she hasn’t done since her first month in Orlais. But she goes out again two nights later. And when Josephine gets back from Antiva near the end of Spring Break, Ellana and Zevran drag her out too.

“Oh, I haven’t been dancing since – well, since two days ago,” Josephine admits. “But before that it had been forever.”

She rifles through her closet, tossing a couple of dresses on the bed before turning to Ellana. Her eyes flick up and down the jeans and t-shirt that Ellana wears.

“You’re not going out in that, are you?”

“ . . . yes?”

“No.” Josephine’s voice is flat and final. “You are not.”

Neither of them leave the dorm until Josephine shoves Ellana into a flowy black dress and gives her some eyeliner.

“Dancing in a t-shirt, Maker forbid,” she mutters, smudging the corners with her thumb.

“It worked in the Dales,” Ellana offers helpfully, grinning when Josephine glowers at her.

“We are not in the Dales, thank you very much.”

Zevran waits for them by the bus stop, Sera and Krem arguing by the lamp post. Krem is wearing a crisp button down the color of the ocean that is most certainly not his.

“Blink twice if this is a hostage situation,” Ellana says to him.

Krem blinks slowly and dramatically until Sera elbows him in the gut.

“I’ve got his bank account information,” Sera says. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“I didn’t know you danced, Sera,” Josephine says brightly.

Sera makes a face. “I don’t dance that fancy stuff like Zev.”

“It involves a lot of jumping,” Zevran adds.

They all pile in Zevran’s car. Ellana leans in and whispers to Josephine, “Sera’s in jeans and a t-shirt.”

“We are not taking fashion cues from _Sera_ ,” she hisses back.

 

Club Rojarrio plays all kinds of music. Her first outing with Zev happened on Swing Night, but there’s also Rock Night and Antivan Night and even Oldies Night.  And some nights, like tonight, they play a mix of everything. Sera dances much the same way the Dalish do, jumping and flailing her arms about and not giving a single shit.

Krem dances like a robot with a gun to his head. Zevran has been alternating between dancing flawless with Josephine, looking like something out of a movie, and slowly trying to coax Krem into letting loose.

Eventually Krem and Ellana catch their breath at the bar and gaze out over the crowd below them.

“Are you okay?”

Krem looks tears his gaze away from the dance floor. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Because those two look awfully cozy out there,” Ellana says, nodding at Zevran and Josephine.

“Zevran could dance cozily with a coat rack. It doesn’t bother me.”

Ellana rolls her eyes. “Come _on_ , Krem. Are we seriously going to dance around this forever?”

Krem looks shocked. “You think I’m into _Zev_?”

“Josephine, you _idiot_ ,” Ellana hisses, smacking his shoulder.

Krem closes his eyes. “Oh, sweet Maker, how the hell did you notice that?”

“Really? It’s only been happening in front of my face for the past two years.”

“Look, it’s just a stupid crush.” Krem rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not like I’m in love with her. She can do whatever she wants. I’m not bothered.”

“You’re really not jealous?”

“Of _Zevran?_ Gods no. He flirts with me as much as he does with her. You should have seen the way he felt up my biceps when he checked the fit of this shirt. Trust me, I don’t do that pining/stare out the window bullshit you see in the movies.”

Ellana turns back to her water.

“If you say so.”

 

“You and Zev seem awfully comfortable with each other,” Josephine says nonchalantly, as they get ready for bed.

“Zev has no sense of personal space. He would get comfortable with a coat rack,” Ellana says, remember Krem’s comment. 

“So, you’re saying you’re not attracted to him?”

Ellana looks over at Josephine, trying to read her face. It’s impossible to tell from her cheery tone if her friend is jealous or just curious.

“Are you saying that you are?” she asks instead.

Josephine turns on her side and stares at Ellana. “Are you avoiding the question?”

“Are you?”

Josephine rolls her eyes. “If you’ve got a crush on Zevran, you have to tell me! That’s the law for best friends.”

“Oh? Would ignoring it be considered an act of war?”

“You do not want to go to war with me,” Josephine said, almost dismissively. “You would lose. Now. Talk.”

“I don’t have a crush on Zevran.”

“Liar!” Josephine gasps. “You dance with him all the time!”

“Dancing is fun.”

Josephine throws one of her pillows at Ellana. “You flirt with him all the time!”

“He flirts with everyone!” Ellana throws her arms up to block the next hit. “It’s harmless!”

“But you think he’s attractive!” Josephine hits her twice before Ellana snatches the pillow away and tosses it back.

“Have you _looked_ at Zevran? The whole freaking world thinks he’s attractive.”

Josephine lets out a groan of frustration as she sinks down onto the bed. “I thought for sure you and Zevran were hooking up. Now I’ve lost ten sovereigns to _Varric_.”

Ellana picks up a stray pillow. “Varric makes bets on me?”

“Of course, he does. He makes bets on everyone. You are not an exception.” Josephine sits up with her back against the headboard. “Do you like _anyone?_ ”

“Is this part of another bet?” 

“No, just simple curiosity. You’ve been surrounded by attractive, single people you age for nearly two years now. Is there no one that’s caught your interest? Unless . . .” Josephine hesitates for a second, “you just can’t feel that way about anyone?”

“That’s not it,” Ellana says. She chews on her lip, mentally rifling through the faces of her friends and classmates. “I grew up in a very small town surrounded by other very small towns. Everyone knew everyone and everyone dated each other because it’s not like there were a whole lot of other options. But when the only people you have to date are the people you’ve known your whole life, things get . . . messy. And it’s even messier when it’s one of your friends.”

The memory of Mihris, and her doomed crush on him all through middle school, flares up. She nearly winces at the accompanying embarrassment. It was supposed to stay her desperate secret, so of course the whole godsforsaken school knew within days. And even though Mihris was never an asshole about it, it took a long time to get over the awkwardness of it all, especially when he started dating Dany. They had survived breakups and jealously and unrequited love, but many friend groups did not.

“You’ve never even thought about one of us?” Josephine asks.

“Oh, I’ve thought about it.”

It’s not like Ellana has never weighed the risk of it before, even recently. It’s crouched in the back of her mind at times, watching Krem tear down the practice field, sweaty and vicious, or the slender lines of Dorian’s fingers as he sketches out a math problem.

Definitely the smell of Zevran’s cologne, the tickle of his breath against her neck, the warmth of his steady hands when they dance, has inspired some interesting day dreams.

Hell, the days Josephine wears her hair down, Ellana sometimes can’t pull her gaze away from the gleam of it in the sun, clenching her fists so she doesn’t run her fingers through it.

“It’s just not worth it if it doesn’t work out,” Ellana says, almost as much to herself as to Josephine. “I need my friends. You guys are the only reason I’ve survived the last few years.”

She crawls in her own bed.  “What about you? I don’t see you dating anyone. I do, however, notice your Antivan flirting with Zev and your sexy dancing.” Ellana gives her a pointed look.

“I’m far too busy to even consider dating,” Josephine says dismissively. “Besides, whatever match I make needs to strengthen my family and our business. Zevran is handsome and great fun, but . . . dalliances in college would just get in the way.”

“Is that why you’re trying to live vicariously through me?” Ellana teases.

“Yes.” Josephine glares down at her. “And you are making that impossible! Also, not very cost effective.”

“My apologies.”

 

A week later, Varric invites them all down to the Hanged Man for pool and Wicked Grace. He and Cassandra have had a running score between the two of them since that first time Cassandra wiped the floor with him.

Zevran arrives a little later than everyone else.

“Hey Zev!” Ellana slides off the side of the pool table. “Hold this,” she says to Josephine, handing over her beer.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m about to win my best friend ten sovereigns.”

Ellana walks up to Zevran, who immediately dips her in his arms and kisses her soundly.

“Hello, _mi amor_ ,” he says, voice deep and rough. Ellana has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. He sounds like he walked off the set of an Antivan melodrama.

“What the hell was that!” Varric yells from the pool table.

In the background, Sera makes gagging noises while Cassandra gasps like she’s starring in the same soap opera as Zevran.

“My friends, I can hide my love for Ellana no longer!” Zevran declares, pulling Ellana back up to her feet with a flourish. “She is without parallel. I give up all other lovers.”

Dorian snorts loudly.

“I call bullshit,” Varric says, pointing his cue stick like a saber. “And it’s still your turn, Ellana.”

Zevran gasps as Ellana pulls away. “Master Tethras, I assure you that Ellana has captured my heart and soul forever. Do we not dance the night away every weekend, _mi amor_? Do I not climb through your window at night to kiss you to sleep?”

“I didn’t hear that,” Dorian says loudly. “And I can’t report what I don’t hear.”

“You can’t report something that’s obviously fake,” says Varric with an eye roll.

“Don’t listen to him, my love.” Zevran throws Varric a smirk. “Here, a kiss for good luck.”

He pecks her sweetly on the cheek before Ellana saunters back to the table.

A devoted actor, Zevran acts like a besotted idiot the entire night. He leans against her, draping his around her shoulder with the grace of a lazy cat. He fetches her drinks and feeds her fried pickle chips as she shoots pool and declares to the whole bar how beautiful her eyes are in an improvised sonnet. He presses kisses against her hairline every time she sinks a ball.

When the night finally winds down, Zevran gathers her face in his hands, walks her against a wall, gives her a long and tender kiss that leaves her rather breathless.

“Goodnight, Ellana,” he says with a wink.

Ellana has to take a deep breath as he ducks out of the doorway.

“You’re blushing,” Dorian murmurs to her.

“Shut up, Dorian.”

She presses a hand to warm cheeks. Godsdamnit.

 

To her credit, Josephine waited until the two of them were safely stored away in their dorm room before pouncing.

“Oh my God, Ellana, what was _that_?”

“That was you winning your ten sovereigns,” Ellana told her, pulling out her pajamas. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Josephine stares at her. “That was planned?”

“Of course, it was planned.”

“But it looked so real! I thought you’d lied to me!”

Ellana laughs. “No, just acting.”

“Acting,” Josephine snorts. “Right. Your reaction to that last kiss was not acting.”

“Shut up, Josie. It’s been a while, okay?”

“So, is Zevran really as good a kisser as everyone says?” Josephine takes a seat on the bed and looks up expectantly.

“Yes,” Ellana says immediately. “Holy shit, yes.”

“Good enough to make you rethink your ban on dating friends?” Josephine smirks.

“Almost. Creators, almost!”

 

The next day dawns breezy and balmy, so Ellana takes her homework outside underneath her favorite wide oak tree. Or she would, but Zevran has already made himself comfortable there. His fingers pick delicate melody from a sleek, golden guitar, because of course he knows how to play.

“Ah! _Mi amor_ ,” he says, smiling up at her.

“You’re in my spot,” Ellana says.

“This tree is fat enough for the both of us.” He scoots over and gives her room enough to sit down. “I thought you would come here. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Alright.” She slings her bag to the ground and then settles in next to him. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to apologize if I was too forward last night,” he says.

Ellana’s eyebrows raise. “Zev, we planned that. Why would I be upset?”

“I may have gotten a bit carried away. I am just making sure I did not cross any boundaries in the pursuit of a joke. I would never intentionally disrespect you.”

“Well I’m not offended.” Ellana’s lips quirk up. “It’s not a hardship to test your reputation as the best kisser on campus.”

Zevran puts a hand on his chest. “You doubted me? Now _I’m_ offended.”

Ellana laughs.

“Well I am happy to hear I did not upset you. If you wish, I will leave you to your studying.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Ellana says. “I can read through a hurricane. Your music won’t bother me.”

However, it’s not the music that distracts her, but thoughts of last night. Zevran played the part of a dutiful boyfriend flawlessly. Even though Ellana knew it was fake, the care underneath the grand gestures felt real. Zevran fit the appetites of a stereotypical man slut, but not the callousness that such behavior implied. He genuinely loved people – a lot of people, sure, but she got the sense that they weren’t all interchangeable bodies to him.

“So, I have a question for you,” Ellana says, setting her book down. “And you can tell me to mind my own business if you want to, but I’m curious.”

“Ask away, dear.”

“You’re gorgeous, intelligent, talented, kind, and genuine. There’s no way you’re single except by choice. So, what’s up with that?”

Zevran grins. “You’re making me blush, Ellana. This is the first time someone has complimented me so much without having sex first.”

Ellana rolls her eyes. “Don’t avoid the question.”

“You’re not the first to ask, you know,” he says, setting his guitar down. “And it’s something I’m still trying to figure out. But I suppose you could say that I love people—all people. I love finding out their dreams, their secrets, their pleasures. There are so many wonderful beings out here that I find I do not want to settle for just one and miss the experience of the rest.”

“I can understand that,” Ellana says.

“What about you?” Zevran asks. “You also share all my wonderful qualities. Where is your lover?”

Creators, why is everybody obsessed with her love life? “Like I have time to even think about that when computer science is trying to kill me.”

“Well consider me impressed that you have resisted the many attractive distractions around you for so long. I would not have the strength.”

“No, you do not,” Ellana says, smiling.

Zevran plucks a daisy from the grass and tucks it behind her ear. “If you are ever in search for a distraction, I am more than happy to offer my services.”

She gives him a fond eyeroll. “You sound like a prostitute.”

“Oh, my dear, I would have you free of charge.”

“I’m . . . weirdly flattered by that, thank you.”

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Kingbreaker is breaking me_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_I swear to the Creators themselves that if I have to hear one more thing about_ The Kingbreaker, _I’m going to punch someone. It’s bad enough that Krem made me read the whole freaking series last year. I mean, the books are good. Definitely entertaining. And I’m used to Krem’s low-key obsession with them and his quest to infect it upon all of his friends._

_But then they started making a movie, and all chill went straight out the fucking window. Krem and Cassandra and Varric and Josephine – even Dorian! – have talked non-fucking stop about what scenes are going to be filmed, and which actors should have been casted instead, and blah blah blah. It’s infected everyone I know._

_A girl can only take so much._

_The movie premieres next week and Varric has pre-bought tickets for all of us to go see the first showing at midnight. Maybe a couple weeks afterward, everyone will finally shut up about it._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

The line for the midnight premiere of _The Kingbreaker_ snakes outside the door. People arrive dressed in costume, from hand stitched versions lifted straight from the movie trailers, to generic fantasy dresses and tunics they’ve doctored up to fit in. Cassandra practically vibrates next to her, head craned over the crowd of people gathering in the lobby, looking for Varric.

“He’s late,” she says darkly.

“Chill out, Cassie, he’ll be here,” Sera says, eyeing the candy kiosk and the swarm of children around it.

“He has our tickets! If he makes us miss this movie I will strangle him myself.”

“I’ll just sneak us in the back,” says Sera. “Maker, haven’t you ever snuck into a movie before?”

Cassandra looks scandalized at the very idea. She’s about to launch into Lecture Mode about integrity or dignity or whatever when Varric materializes in front of them, as if thin air.

“Where have you been?” Cassandra demands, turning on him the full force of her ire. “There will be no seats left for us to sit together!”

“Stay the execution, Princess,” says Varric. “I’ve got Tiny reserving the back row for us.”

He passes everyone their tickets and people give them dirty looks as they skip the line and head straight into the theater. Sure enough, Coach Bull sits up in the very back row, clutching an enormous bucket of popcorn. Even as the theater quickly fills up, all the seats in the back row are empty. Dorian makes a bee-line straight for the seat next to Bull and immediately helps himself to the popcorn bucket. Everyone else files in behind. Ellana ends up squished between Cassandra and Sera.

Hushed excited whispers fill the room as people wait impatiently for the movie to start. Sera pulls out a box of chocolate covered caramel.

“Did you pay for that?” Ellana whispers. She doesn’t remember anyone going near the ridiculous snack line.

Sera just rolls her eyes. Ellana shrugs and grabs a few pieces from the box.

She can tell by the muttered comments and gasps from Cassandra what they changed from the book, but with her complaints, Cassandra looks utterly enraptured. A bomb could go off in the next room and she wouldn’t move.

Sera, thank the Creators, is the only one besides Ellana who didn’t join the hype train. She only showed up to make snarky comments with Ellana (and the free candy, apparently). They both whisper and giggle throughout the movie, dodging the occasional glare from Cassandra whenever they get too loud.

“Gross, you can totally see his junk through those tights,” Ellana whispers.

“If that’s all he’s got, then he needs to start wearing looser hose,” Sera whispers back. “I’ve got a bigger dick than that.”

The steady stream of commentary keeps up until the climax of the movie, where the protagonist has stormed his way through a haunted Elvhen keep filled with the ghosts of brutally murdered Emerald Knights to find the Sword of Truth. Ellana eye rolls her way through the butchered translation of ancient Elvhen.

“He did not say that,” Ellana murmurs. “He said _My mother is an Oak Tree._ Creators, did these people not even do any research?”

Sera says nothing back. Not even a snort or a giggle. Ellana turns her head to find her friend gripping the armrest with whitened knuckles, her body pushed back against the seat as far as it would go. On the screen, an Elvhen ghost floats through a wall, screaming, and Sera flinches.

“Sera?” Ellana whispers.

“What?” Sera jerks and looks at Ellana. “Oh yeah, okay tree. Ha ha. Idiots, right?”

She gives Ellana a half-hearted grin, but it feels robotic, just as her words sounded automatic. She doesn’t relax until the hero runs out of the haunted keep as it collapses around him, Sword of Truth in hand.

Over Sera’s head, Krem shoots Ellana a speculative look.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Never show me your weakness_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_I think Sera is afraid of ghosts. Or anything supernatural. There was a scene in_ The Kingbreaker _where the protagonist had to break into some haunted tomb of an Emerald Knight (which I rolled my eyes at, because why are all the homicidal ghosts in movies elves?) and she was backed up in her seat so far it looked like she was trying to phase through it._

_And then after the movie, when Krem launched into his fanboy rambling about that scene, Sera yelled at him to shut up and then made up some excuse to leave and ditched us._

_So Krem and I spent the whole ride back to the dorms speculating and plotting. Of what, I can’t tell you yet. I don’t want to jinx. But I will say this:_

_A Kingbreaker never forgets. And neither do Krem and I._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana_

_To: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_From: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_Re: Never show me your weakness_

_Dear Ellana,_

_I wish you luck in your mysterious endeavors. Do keep me updated. I find myself strangely invested in this tale. I am eager to see some comeuppance._

_Yours,_

_Fen’Harel_

Though she has the diabolical mind of a comic book villain, Sera also has the attention span of a five-year old hopped up on Sour Gummy Nugs. The key to getting one over on her is simple: wait her out.

 

The two weeks before finals are always a landmine of end-of-semester projects and term papers. Every semester Ellana toys with the idea of launching a movement with college kids everywhere – finals suck bad enough without the added pressure of huge projects right before them. The last month of school generally makes free time the stuff off wishful thinking.

Krem, Ellana, and Josephine have – as usual – holed themselves away in the upper corner of the library, pounding out their last papers. Sera lays across a table beside them, flipping through her phone with impatient huffs and side-eyed looks their way.

“Andtraste’s fucking ass, you three,” she whines, earning her several dirty looks from the students around her. “We were supposed to head to dinner half an hour ago. Can’t you nerds wrap it up?”

“Just let me finish this last paragraph,” Ellana murmurs.

“You three need a life,” Sera mutters. “Maybe I should do you all a favor and implant a virus on your laptops.”

“You wouldn’t survive the night,” Krem says, eyes not leaving his screen.

A few minutes later, the three of them hit save and start packing up, neither of them able to handle a second more of Sera’s whining before caving into the urge to strangle her.

“So, did you guys know this library used to be haunted?” Krem asks as they leave.

“What do you mean, _used_ to be haunted?” Ellana asks. “Ghosts are kind of forever.”

Sera freezes, finger hovering over her phone, but Krem pays her no mind.

“Ghosts are for children,” Josephine scoffs. “Where did you even hear that?”

“It’s part of my research for my term paper. We have to pick a building in Skyhold and research the history of it. I picked the library because, duh, we practically live here. And it turns out, the building itself is over three hundred years old, and some massive fire happened a hundred and eight years ago and burned half of it down. Two students and a librarian never made it out, but the fire burned so hot that no one ever found their remains. Now they haunt the place at night.”

“I’ve never seen any sign of any ghost,” says Josephine with an eye roll. “That’s just some stupid story.”

“It really happened. You can look it up,” says Krem.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ellana sees search results for the fire pop up on Sera’s phone.

“I wonder what the ghost of a burn victim looks like,” Ellana muses. “Would they be all melted and blistered?”

“Depends on how they died,” says Krem. “If it was from smoke inhalation, then they might look normal.”

“Oi! Shut up, both of you,” Sera snaps. “No one wants to hear about your stupid, silly ghost stories.”

Krem slaps her on the back. “That’s right, I forgot you’re afraid of ghosts.”

Sera bristles like a cat thrown in the shower. “I am _not_ scared of stupid ghosts!”

“Are you sure? You seemed pretty freaked out at that ghost scene in _Kingbreaker_.”

“I was _not_ freaked out, Krempuff. I was _bored_.”

Krem does an exaggerated impression of Sera cowering in her seat at the theater. Sera smacks the back of his head.

“Children!” Josephine warns.

“You might bluff well, but I know what I saw,” Krem says, unbearably smug. “I bet you fifty sovs you couldn’t last the whole night in the library.”

“You’re fucking on.”

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Revenge is best served with high pitched screaming_

_Dear Fen’Harel,_

_Did you know that the library is haunted? Krem and I did – years ago. It’s one of the things I learned when researching this place after I met Abelas that first time._

_It’s not a widely discussed fact – probably because the last paranormal “incident” was over seventy years ago. Once the ghost was forgotten, all the ghostly happenings stopped . . . happening._

_We didn’t tell Sera about that last part when Krem dared her to spend the entire night in the library._

_It’s one of their Challenges. And yes, that’s Challenges with a capital C. It started when Krem and Sera first met at the Hanged Man and all the Challenges were small – drink bottles of hot sauce or ask the scary bartender for his number._

_But they’ve kept it up all semester long. From saying the word “cock” in innocent conversation with strangers, to snorting the sugar off of Sour Gummy Nugs up the nose, to climbing the top of the bell tower, it’s a damn miracle no one has landed in jail or the hospital yet._

_So when Krem Challenged Sera to spend the entire night in the library, it’s really not that insane compared to some of the previous Challenges._

_Even though she would die before admitting it, Sera is terrified of anything paranormal or strange. So I offered to spend the night with her in the library._

_It started out great. There are a hundred places to hide in that library, and the librarians don’t really clear the place out before they leave – it’s not like students are dying to spend the night here anyway and there are cameras. Well, except for the night Sera and I slept there because she deleted that footage and replaced it some kind of looped footage from last month._

_Anyway, we packed movies and our laptops and Sera packed this giant flood light and we crashed on the sofas down by the lobby. Sera acted like it was this great sleepover, but I could tell she was nervous. She screamed when I sneezed too loud._

_And then something banged, like a door slamming shut, somewhere in the stacks._

_Sera shot up from the couch and pulls out a taser – an honest-to-Creators fucking taser._

_“They think they’re so fucking clever, scaring me like that,” she told me, grinning like a lunatic. “But we’ll see who’s scared once I electrocute the piss out of them.”_

_But no matter how fast she ran through the library, she never found anyone. Meanwhile, books flew off the shelves with no one to push them, the lights flickered on and off, some eerie music played over the loud speaker, just soft enough to make you think that you imagined it and sometimes a barely audible “Sera” was whispered through the speakers._

_We led Sera up the stairs to the top floor, where they supposedly found the bodies of the fire victims, when Sera’s flood light flickered off and smoke started seeping out of the door of one of the study cubbies, like there was a fire._

_Something yanked on my ponytail, but the second they touched Sera she let out an unholy scream and flipped that taser on and what happened I’m still trying to piece together. All I know is that I heard a bunch of thumping and then the lights flickered on and Krem is holding Sera down on the ground and she’s flailing like a bobcat trying to stun him._

_“You could have fucking warned me she had a taser!” Krem said to me._

_“What. The fuck. Is this?” Sera growled. Gods, she looked positively fucking murderous._

_Krem bent down and said so sweetly to her ear. “Remember that time you gave me my miraculous squirrel cure? Payback’s a bitch.”_

_She immediately glared at me. “And what’s your excuse?”_

_“Are you kidding me? I had to help him do all that stupid shit at three in the morning,” I said._

_The whole set up might seem elaborate, but it was actually pretty easy. We corralled Zevran into our scheme with very little effort. Not only did he convince Wynne to let us in the library that night, but he also put some secret switch circuit in Sera’s flashlight and borrowed the fog machine from the Theater Department. Fishing wire, magnets, baking pans to bang around did all the rest._

_Did this end the Great Prank Feud between Krem and Sera?_

_Hell no it did not. Right now I know Sera is planning fifty different ways to ruin Krem’s life. But at least I got some satisfaction out of it and Krem has some well deserved respect._

_Yours,_

_Ellana._

 

The only thing that gets Josephine and Ellana through the last leg of finals is bribery. Of themselves. For each five paragraphs of a paper or ten pages of reading, they watch one episode of this Antivan melodrama that’s actually way more engrossing than Ellana anticipated.

It’s in the middle of the second episode of the night when Josephine’s cell phone rings. Ellana glances down – it’s the number for Josephine’s mother. Instead of ignoring the call or telling her mother to call later like Ellana expects, Josephine jumps up from the bed, pausing the movie with a tap of the space bar, and takes the call outside in the hallway.

Weird. Josephine hasn’t been shy about talking to her parents in front of Ellana for a long time. After a few minutes – Ellana hears faint squealing through the door – Josephine bursts back into the room.

“Guess what!” she cries, grinning so broadly her face can barely contain it.

Ellana gives her a wary look. “Is this about that boy band you like?”

“No! Trust me, if they were coming anywhere near Skyhold, I would probably jump out the window,” says Josephine. “This is almost as wonderful. Ellana, I asked my mother if you could join us this summer and she said yes!”

It takes a second for this to process. “Like, in Antiva? The whole summer? At your fancy beach house?”

Josephine nods excitedly. “Sipping Antivan Sunrises, reading those trashy novels Cassandra loves so much, tanning.”

The excitement unfolds slowly – and then all at once. Beaches. Ocean. Boardwalks. Sun and seagulls and no stress at all whatsoever. All the good food she could ever want, at no cost to her. Ellana leaps from the bed.

“You’re serious?” she asks, fighting a wide grin.

“It is going to be the best summer of your _life_ ,” Josephine says. “Don’t you worry about _anything_. My family will cover any expenses, you don’t even have to ask your benefactor. Unless –” a shadow crosses Josephine’s face. “Do you have to have his permission to go?”

“Are you kidding me? Do I look five to you? He pays my tuition; he’s not my parent. He doesn’t have any control over what I do in my free time.” A sobering through crosses Ellana’s mind. “What about your parents? Are they okay with me being . . . me?”

“Of course,” says Josephine. “I have literally told them everything I know about you. You’re like a celebrity to my little sister – who, by the way, might be the only detractor to this trip. She is never going to leave us alone.”

“You forget I grew up in a town where _everyone_ was in your business all the time. I can handle it.”

They spend the rest of the evening going through photos of the house and boardwalk on Josephine’s phone, planning out shopping trips and adventures – horseback riding on the beach, parasailing in the lagoon. They look at the menus of Josephine’s favorite restaurants.

Krem is going to hate her so much this summer.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject: Hot Damn!_

_Dear Fen’Harel_ ,

_Josephine invited me to stay with her this summer in Antiva! I’m really excited. I’ve seen pictures of her family’s beach house and it is so gorgeous. It’s like something out of a magazine or a movie. And I’ll actually be there, eating lobster at their table, drinking Mai-tai’s on their private beach, and petting dolphins on their private boat._

_It sounds like I won the lottery or a game show or something._

_And the best part is, Josephine’s family has offered to cover all the expenses. They’re rich beyond my wildest dreams, so even though a part of me feels a little uncomfortable about it, to them it’s the equivalent of the loose change in their couch._

_And even though Josephine is disgustingly wealthy, she’s never an asshole about it, so I don’t have to worry about feeling inferior. She really just wants someone to hang out with other than her sister and her cousins and she’s even more excited about me being there than I am._

_Don’t worry, Fen’Harel, I’ll make sure to send you pictures and keep you updated._

_Your friend,_

_Ellana._

Finals loom large over the horizon, but all Ellana can think about is Antiva. It takes twice as long as usual to study, but she doesn’t mind. In three weeks she will embark on her first ever vacation, and all of this work and stress and studying will be a distant memory.

It doesn’t help that Josephine constantly talks about it. She even went so far as to have her mother ship all her bikinis to the dorm for the two of them to try on.

“I have this green and gold one that is going to look gorgeous on you,” she says as she cuts open the tape with one of her manicured nails.

“I’m not as . . . generously endowed as you up top,” Ellana protests.

“Then it will actually look modest on you. On me it looks obscene, I can’t wear it in public.”

When she pulls it out, it’s skimpier than anything Ellana has ever owned. Of course, back home she usually just jumped in the river in a t-shirt and cut off shorts after a long and sweaty hike, any bathing suit is skimpy to her. But still, Ellana eyes the halter top and tiny shorts with some trepidation.

Josie shoves it into her arms. “Try it on right now!”

It’s a testament to both her communal upbringing and how comfortable that she and Josie have become that Ellana strips off her shirt and bra without a bat of an eyelash. Josie’s right. The lush green and gold accents make her bronze skin glow and her eyes stand out.

“That is perfect,” Josie breathes. “It’s so perfect that I’m giving it to you.”

“What?” Ellana squawks.

“Of course, I am. You’ve ruined it for me now. I will always think of you and compare myself and come up short.”

Ellana bites her lip to keep from smiling. “It does not look _that_ good.”

“Shut up, it does so. Besides, I have other bathing suits.”

“Thanks, Josie.”

“If you don’t break at least three people’s hearts in that suit this summer, I will be sorely disappointed.”

There is a knock on the door.

“Come in,” says Josie gaily.

Ellana turns around, expecting Zev or Krem and wanting to see their reactions. To her horror, _Abelas_ stands in the door way, dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit and looking at her with raised eyebrows.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I’ll wait until you are . . . decent.”

Red to the tips of her ears, Ellana can only wordlessly nod as he closes the door again.

“Who is that?” Josephine hisses.

“That’s Fen’Harel’s lawyer,” Ellana says, swallowing.

She throws on her shirt and jeans over the suit and steps out into the hallway, where Abelas inspects one of the bulletin boards with morbid curiosity.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “I was, um, trying on some bathing suits, and I thought you were one of my friends.”

“A fruitless endeavor,” he says. “Where you are going this summer does not require such attire.”

Ellana quirks an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure in Antiva it’s required.”

“But you are not going to Antiva.” He turns around and faces her.

A stone drops in the pit of her stomach.

“Excuse me?”

“You will be spending the summer on an archeological dig site in the Emerald Graves National Park. Fen’Harel has secured an internship for you.”

“ _Internship_ ,” she says. “But I didn’t ask for one.”

“You did not need to.”

“But I already have plans.”

“Those plans are now canceled,” he tells her without any sympathy at all.

Fury leaves her wordless, her mouth gaping open. Can she argue about this? Does Fen’Harel have control over her summers in the contract she signed? Why would he arrange for this when she already told him what she had planned with Josephine?

Abelas takes an envelope from his suit pocket and hands it to her. “Your flight information and tickets. You will need to pack a wardrobe that can withstand dirt, wear, and tear. Fen’Harel has included a gift card in the envelope for you to buy such purchases if you need to.”

She takes it slowly from his hand, still struggling with a way to get out of this, but she’s afraid of unleashing her temper on Abelas, and _that_ would probably end in her getting evicted from her scholarship and ejected out of Skyhold.

Abelas gives her a short bow. “My business here is done. I wish you a good day,” he says with the sincerity of an automated telemarketer.

She says nothing back. Angry tears prick the edges of her eyes, blurring her vision as she stumbles back into the dorm.

“Ellana, what happened?” Josephine asks, her eyes big with worry. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

Ellana sits down slowly on her bed. “I’m not going to Antiva,” she says. “Fen’Harel has arranged some sort of internship in Emerald Graves National Park. Some sort of archeological dig.”

Josephine’s face falls. “But . . . didn’t you tell him you were coming with me?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Did he . . . not want you to go?” Josephine asks carefully.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say _anything_. I haven’t heard from him all week.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either.” Ellana bit her lip. “I don’t know if I can say no.”

Anger and bitter disappointment rage against each other. The urge to punch something overwhelms her. She sits up abruptly, throwing her hair in a rough ponytail.

“I’m going to the gym,” she says, voice jerky. “Call your parents . . . tell them I’m sorry for any expenses they’ve lost.”

“Ellana, you know they aren’t going to care about that,” Josephine says.

But Ellana has already walked out the door.

 

Through the window of the gym, Ellana can see Krem lifting weights while Coach Bull spots him. She doesn’t know whether or not to be relieved to have company.

Coach Bull takes one look at her expression and wordlessly fetches her gloves from the locker.

“What happened?” Krem asked, sitting up from the barbells. “Some asshole didn’t bother you, did he?”

 _Oh hell yes he did_ Ellana thinks. She’s too angry to explain anything and Coach Bull saves her from the attempt.

“Don’t ask questions. Just let the girl hit something.”

Ellana dons the gloves and starts jabbing punches at the bag.

How dare he?

How fucking _dare_ he?

Who does he think he is that he could control her life without a care for her own wants or goals? Did he think that just because he’s rich, because he’s been generous to her, that he could dictate what she did in her free time? He didn’t ask. He didn’t even try to talk to her about it. He sent his lackey in to give her the bad news because he was too cowardly to do it himself.

She didn’t _ask_ for his help! She doesn’t even _know who he is_. But he knows everything about her and the unfairness of that situation weighs on her suddenly. It makes her see their relationship in a new light. Ellana had thought they were friends.

What a stupid, naïve thing to believe.

And godsdamnnit, she had been looking forward to the beach! She works her _ass_ off at this school. The last two semesters alone have nearly killed her. The last thing she wants this summer is to do _more_ work! And in the _Dales_ , on top of that, digging up Elvhen bullshit as if Fen’Harel doesn’t know she wants nothing to do with her culture anymore. It’s like he handpicked the way to make her the most miserable this summer.

It’s betrayal, pure and simple.

“Whoah! Easy, Ellana, you’re going to bruise your knuckles, you keep this up.” Bull grasps the wildly swinging bag and stills it. “Take a break.”

She sits down on a bench, panting, and Krem wordlessly hands her his water bottle.

“Thanks,” she gasps before she chugs the rest of it away.

By the time she and Krem both shower, Ellana has cooled off enough to talk about it. She rants to him as he escorts her back to the dorm, which Krem listens to with the patience of Mythal.

“You should talk to him,” he says. “Something might be up. This doesn’t sound like him.”

“You know, I want to believe that, but I don’t actually know anything about him to make that judgement,” Ellana says acidly.

“Well then you should give him a major ass chewing. Don’t take things without a fight.”

Gods, wouldn’t she love to. But it’s too risky. She needs Fen’Harel for another two years, and now he’s capable of random, unannounced upheavals of her life. Last week she didn’t think he’d ever pull her tuition money out from under her, and now she’s not so sure.

Now she doesn’t know what he’s capable of.

Her flight leaves the day after Josephine’s. Josie insists Ellana keeps the bikini, even though she has no need of it now.

“Antiva isn’t going anywhere,” she tells Ellana, hugging her before she gets into the cab. “You’ll come one day. I promise.”

She kisses Ellana on the cheek and waves at her until the car drives out of sight. Ellana keeps up her cheery smile until she knows Josie can’t see her anymore. Then she sighs and returns to the dorm to pack her own bag.

Her laptop sits on her desk. Is there a point in taking it? She doesn’t want to so much as look at it for the next two months, not that there would be much point in taking it with her. Internet is spotty at best in the Dales and she highly doubts it exists at all in the Emerald Graves. She’ll be damned if she writes to Fen’Harel.

Torn between anger and curiosity, Ellana debated with herself all week to check her email for any word from him. Either he sends her a pity apology that would come too late (highly doubtful) or he would berate her for her ingratitude (if Abelas informed him of her less than enthusiastic reaction to the news.) Neither reaction would satisfy her, and on the eve of her flight, she would have no time to deal with it before diving straight into her internship.

But still . . . the curiosity burns at her. What reaction should she prepare for this summer? Against her better judgement, Ellana opens her laptop and logs into her email. Nerves fizz in her stomach as she scans her messages, looking for his name.

Nothing.

Ellana sits back in her chair.

She expected anger or contrition or oblivious confusion. Tips on what to pack. But _nothing_? Not even in her junk mail?

The more she stares at her inbox, the angrier she gets. He spends thousands of dollars on her, dictates to her how to spend her time, and yet he can’t be bothered to talk to her? Is she that insignificant to him? Does he not even care that she’s angry? Does he not even _know_?

Fingers shaking, Ellana composes a new message to him. She has to walk a tight line – to go off on him as she dearly wants to puts her education at risk. But she can’t stomach the idea that he’s living in his own world, oblivious to what he’s done to her.

 

_To: fen_harel@tmail.com_

_From: e_lavellan@skyholdu.edu_

_Subject:_

_Next time you want to ruin my vacation, have the guts to talk to me yourself – instead of hiding behind your lackey like a coward. Who, by the way, has all the tact and social skills of a CPU._

 

Once she’s done, Ellana packs the laptop in its case and makes arrangements to store it at Varric’s place with the rest of her things.

There’s a knock at her door.

“Ellana? I know you’re there. I can here you seething.” says Krem.

Her lips quirk at the edges. “It’s unlocked.”

Krem walks through, spinning a Frisbee on his finger.

“We should get one more round in before you leave,” he says. “Get some of your aggression out.”

Gods bless Krem. “Let me finish packing first and you’re on.”

She takes a few minutes to double check her suitcase of sturdy jeans, shorts, hiking boots, bug spray, leather gloves, t-shirts, and flannel button downs. With Fen’Harel’s money, she bought a small space blanket and sleeping bag, though the list that Abelas emailed her did not specify those kinds of things. But she knows what the Dales are like.

“You should pack the bikini,” Krem says lazily as she zips it shut.

Ellana shoots him a raised eyebrow. “Why?”

He shrugs, looking studiously at his phone, and the tops of his cheeks are ever so slightly pink. “They’ve got rivers in the Dales, right?”

“Uh huh.” Ellana smiles and stuffs the bathing suit in through the opening in the zipper.

 

“Five sovs says you can’t catch this one.”

“Five sovs says you’re wrong.”

Krem grins and cocks back the Frisbee. Ellana steps back as he whips it through the air like a missile. It shoots past her head and she races down the Quad after it, her thoughts narrowing to nothing but the bright yellow disk and the five sovereigns she’s going to get out of it.

So focused on the prize, she doesn’t notice Krem’s horrified face and frantic warnings, and certainly not the warm body her elbow collides into as she launches into the air like a deer to snatch the Frisbee from the air.

But now she notices landing hard on something definitely _not_ hard, the pained groan in her ear, Krem’s distant yelling.

Ellana looks down at the elven man sprawled under her, the wide blue eyes, freckles sticking out like glitter on pale skin. And the blood starting to trickle from his nostrils.

“Oh, fucking Creators!” She leaps off of him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I’m so sorry.”

The elf groans and sits up, hand cradling his nose. The sun gleams against his bald head.

“S _hit_ ,” Ellana hisses when he pulls his hand back and it’s covered in blood. “Here.” She yanks her shirt off, leaving her clad in her sports bra, and offers it to him to staunch the bleeding.

The elf’s eyes go wide and he tries to wave it off. “That’s not necessary,” he huffs, and he averts his gaze, the tops of his cheeks blushing.

Ellana rolls her eyes. “You’re bleeding and you’re worried about modesty?”

The elf closes his eyes. “Fair point,” he concedes taking the shirt and pressing it underneath his nose.

By now Krem has rushed over, hand over his mouth, but his eyes sparkling and she knows once the elf leaves, he will have already texted Varric and everyone will give her shit.

“That was a hell of a tackle. You should play for the Chargers, Ellana.”

“Fuck off, Krem. At least I caught it. You owe me five sovs.”

The elf jerks his head up at the sound of her name. He stares so intently up at her that Ellana wonders if they know each other. She doesn’t remember meeting any bald elves, and he looks older than a typical student, but maybe they had class together.

“You maimed me . . . for five sovereigns?”

Or maybe he’s memorizing her face so he can press charges later.

Ellana winces. “I am _really_ sorry about that.”

She gets to her feet and offers her hand. The elf hesitates for moment before taking her hand and pulling himself up. His height surprises her -- he has at least two inches on Ellana’s five-foot ten frame. Most elves are lucky to reach 5’8.

The elf stands for a moment, shirt pressed against his nose, looking rather stunned.

“Are you okay?” Ellana asks, which is a stupid question. Obviously he’s not.

“Pardon me,” he murmurs, “but I think I need to go to the emergency room.”

He walks away before Ellana can do something stupid, like open her mouth and offer to accompany him, even though he’s a complete stranger and probably never wants to see her face again and will probably slap an assault charge on her.

Still, she watches him lope across the Quad towards the campus parking lot to make sure he doesn’t suddenly collapse.

“If we keep playing, are you going to grievously injure anyone else?” Krem asks.

She elbows him in the gut. “Yeah. You.”

 

Ellana hates flying. The whole process is nerve-wracking – getting there on time, getting through security, trying not to miss the connecting flight. Gods, she wishes she had a car to drive to the Emerald Graves, even if it would take her two days.

Driven by stress and paranoia, she arrives early and is one of the first passengers on the plane.  The rest file in, and Ellana stands up to let an elderly dwarf into the window seat next to her. The plane is just about to take off when one of the flight attendants tells the pilot to hold for a late passenger.

By now Ellana’s been sitting in her seat for the better part of forty-five minutes and her patience is wearing thin. She looks up when the passenger finally arrives, just so she can put a face to the source of her annoyance.

It’s the elf from the Quad, sporting a large white splint over the nose. Purple bruises seep from underneath it, spreading under his eyes like ink from a broken pen.

Ellana scoots down in her seat and averts her gaze. Gods, that look like it hurt and judging from the thunderous expression on his face, he would love nothing more than to call the cops on her.

As he heads down the aisle, clutching a leather laptop bag and a book, Ellana closes her eyes and prays to the Creators that he doesn’t sit anywhere near her. And those merciful Creators, they listen. The elf stops a few rows ahead of her and crams himself into an aisle seat on the opposite side.

Ellana brought only one book with her – an advanced copy of Varric’s latest installment of _Hard in Hightown_. An early birthday present, he called it, as if he isn’t waiting anxiously for her opinion on it once she’s done. But the elf’s presence just five rows ahead of her destroys her concentration. She can see part of his profile from her seat and she can’t help but study him.

He’s dressed pretty dapper for flying in a suit vest, button down, and dark dress pants. His long legs look rather cramped, folded up in a way that reminds her of a spider. Ellana knows that discomfort – the magazine holder in the seat in front of her currently digs into her own legs.

Despite looking the exact type of person to get lost in a library, the elf does not pull out any books. Instead, he leans back in the chair as much as the space will afford him and closes his eyes.

 _You are not watching him sleep, that is creepy._ Ellana chastises herself.

Even so, every now and then she sneaks glances at him. The elf sleeps like the dead, arms crossed and unmoving the entire three-hour flight. Creators, what if he _is_ dead? What if she gave him a concussion yesterday and he’s never going to wake up?

But the elf startles awake at the jolt of the plane landing, blinking blearily around for a moment. Ellana ducks her gaze back down to her book. She needs to be able to get off this plane without him noticing her.

She keeps her distance as everyone stands up and rifles through the overhead compartments, allowing people to go ahead of her in a show of false generosity. Like some kind of stalker, Ellana trails after him to the baggage claim, keeping plenty of people in between them.

Her eyes scan the crowd, looking for a sign with her name. She needs to locate her ride, grab her baggage, and get the hell out before her assault victim ever notices her.

A young man in a very large gardening hat holds two posters up, one in each hand. The left hand sign has her name scribbled on it in black marker. She lets go a sigh of relief before looking at the other sign.

Her heart stops.

Scribbled onto the second sign is the name _Solas Felassan_.

As in Dr. Solas Felassan.

As in the man who wrote _The Rise and Fall of Arlathan_.

And as if her heart wasn’t going into enough palpitations, the elf from the plane strolls over to the boy, shaking his head and smiling as if they are old friends.

“The sign is unnecessary, Cole,” he says. “I know what you look like.”

“I have a new hat. I wasn’t sure,” Cole says. He nods to Ellana. “Is that her?”

Dr. Solas Felassan turns his head to look at what is undoubtedly an unflattering picture of Ellana with her mouth hanging open.

“Are you Ellana Lavellan?”

 

Well  _shit._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first cliffhanger. Feels exhilarating! If anyone wants to talk shop or fic with me, come to my tumblr: blarfkey.tumblr.com. I've never had anyone do that before, and I would welcome the chance. Thanks for you all your wonderful comments and Kudos!
> 
> Also, I wrote a canon compliant fic for the wonderful friendship that Solas and Cassandra share if anyone wants to give that some love. I am mildly obsessed with their relationship in the game, haha.


	9. Summer after Sophomore Year --The Emerald Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in boys and girls: The journey Solas and Ellana's True Love is a hell of a bumpy ride. This is only the beginning.

This is not happening.

The thought keeps running through her mind on a loop.

This is not happening. This a dream. A nightmare. Some kind of misunderstanding.

Dr. Felassan keeps looking at her expectantly, eyebrows slightly raised as if he’s starting to worry that she has a mental disfunction.

“I – yes. Yes.” Ellana swallows, her mouth dry. “I’m Ellana.”

Cole tilts his head up, but not enough for her to see his eyes under that ginormous hat. “Hello,” he says, and he sounds like a five-year-old meeting his teacher for the first time – shy but hopeful. “I’m Cole.”

He doesn’t make a move to shake her hand, but she can’t tell if he’s oblivious or rude.

“Do you need help with your things?” he asks, nodding to her beat up suitcase.

“No. I think I got it. Thank you,” she adds.

“Okay.” He turns to Dr. Felassan. “I parked the car out that way . . . I think.”

“We’ll find it.”

Cole leads them on a merry goose chase through the parking garage until Dr. Felassan hits the car alarm. Ellana throws her suitcase in the trunk of a compact silver sedan, the interior of which is spotless save for one of those travel pillows and a blanket stashed in the front seat.

Dr. Felassan ducks into the driver’s side, so Ellana practically dives into the back before Cole can offer the front seat out of politeness.

“Cole, please take off your hat,” Felassan murmurs as he pushes the seat back to accommodate his long legs and adjusts the mirror. “It’s hard for me to see.”

Cole obliges, tucking it by his feet. His shaggy blonde hair roughly resembles a haystack, and his bangs hang in his eyes like a sheepdog.

“This is Solas,” he says, gesturing to the driver.

“We’ve met,” Dr. Felassan says shortly. He puts the car in drive, and they make their way out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

Cole looks at Dr. Felassan with his head cocked to the side. “You’re hurting.”

“I’m fine, Cole.”

“Your knuckles are white on the steering wheel,” Cole points out. “I can drive. I won’t get lost. I have the GPS.”

Dr. Felassan spares a small smile at Cole, but it looks strained. “Thank you for the offer, but I can handle it. You should get some sleep. You look tired.”

“If you say so,” says Cole. He pulls on the neck pillow and blanket and drops into a nap with the speed and efficiency of the elderly.

A silence descends upon the car thick enough to suffocate. It makes Ellana want to roll down the window just to get some air. Instead she settles with her head against the glass, trying to ignore the stabbing pang of guilt at the sight of his broken nose in the review mirror.

She met her favorite author and the first thing she does is permanently disfigure him.

This must have been Fen’Harel’s plan -- the meeting not the nose breaking. Arranging an entire summer working with her favorite author on a dig site. He probably thought she’d be ecstatic.

Under different circumstances she would have been. But he didn’t talk to her – he didn’t _ask_ her—and she’s gone and broken Dr. Felassan’s nose and he seems like he hates her for it and this whole fucking summer is already a mess and it’s all _his_ fault.

The silence lingers the entire two-hour drive. No music. No conversation. Only the faint snores of Cole, who sleeps the entire time, puncture the quiet. Dr. Felassan doesn’t seem too keen on small talk, and Ellana is too mortified to start.

Instead she stares out the window as the trees thicken and the towns become sparse, stewing in her own helpless anger. She has no idea where they’re staying beyond some vague description of some cabin retreat within the park itself. She has no clue what she’s expected to do for these people – just promise that someone will fill her in once she arrives.

(She’s still waiting).

Gods, if Dr. Felassan doesn’t hate her enough now, wait until he finds out how underqualified she is for this internship. She’s going to look like some clueless brat whose successes stem only from the favoritism of the type of man who throws his weight around and calls in favors. How many other students – real history or archeology students – applied for this spot and were disappointed by someone who doesn’t even want to be here?

 

They pull up to the furthest flung cabin the park had to offer just as the sun begins to set. She takes a shaky step out of the car, and the cacophony of birdsong and the thick, heady smell of _green_ , of dirt and leaves and flowers, jolts her awake faster than a double shot of espresso.  The cabin sits in front of a gravel driveway at the end of a dirt trail. A wide creek glitters off to the right. Two massive trees guard the front porch.

It’s all the best parts of home, and the sudden ache from it feels like a punch in the kidney. She breathes in deep, relishing the scent of clover.

“Cole,” Dr. Felassan says, shaking the boy softly on the shoulder. “Cole, wake up. We’re here.”

Cole sits up, blinking like a fawn, and nods. “Do you need help with your bags?” he asks Ellana again, twisting around in her seat.

“No, thank you,” she says, oddly touched by his instance. “I got it.”

She climbs out of the car, stretching from four hours of sitting. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Dr. Felassan do the same, his long arms stretching above his head.

The screen door of the cabin opens and a dark-haired elven woman steps out.

A Dalish elven woman.

She and Ellana lock eyes and there is a moment of shock and joy and recognition all rolled together.

“ _Lethallan!_ ” she cries, bounding down the steps. “Oh, Solas, you didn’t tell me that she was Dalish!”

“A surprise to me as well,” Dr. Felassan says, his eyes darting to her.

Before she can decipher what exactly that look means, the elf takes Ellana’s hands in her own and squeezes.

“I’m Merrill Sabrae!” she says, her eyes bright as the sunlight streaming through the trees.

“Ellana Lavellan.” She cannot help but grin back. Merrill’s eyes are as wide and guileless as a baby halla.

“What part of the Dales are you from? How long have you been away? Do you ever go up north? That’s where I’m from, just outside of Kirkwall –”

“Merrill, Ms. Lavellan just arrived. Give her a moment to breathe, will you?” Dr. Fellassan says, hefting his laptop bag over his shoulder.

Merrill goes a bit pink in her cheeks. “Right, sorry. I tend to ramble, Ellana, and sound like an idiot. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Ellana says, shooting Dr. Felassan a look, but he has already turned away and headed towards the cabin.

She answers Merrill’s questions as they head inside. The middle of the cabin is taken up by the kitchen and living room, while doors to the bedrooms and bathroom flank the sides. A tall man stands in the kitchen, pulling plates out of the cabinets.

“Oi, you’re just in time,” he says with a light brogue. “Pizza’s just about done.” He looks up at Dr. Felassan, who deposits the laptop bag onto the small table between the couch and the kitchen island.  “Sweet Maker, Solas, what clocked you in the face?”

Ellana stiffens and tries not to look guilty.

“A force of nature,” Dr. Felassan says dryly. “Truly, an accident. I fell. I apologize for being delayed.”

The man waves him off. “The ruin’s not going anywhere. Is this the intern we were promised?” he gestures at Ellana.

“Ellana Lavellan,” Dr. Felassan introduces, “this is Dr. Bram Kenric, my partner for this site.”

“It’s a pleasure, Ellana,” says Dr. Kenric. He comes around the kitchen to shake her hand. “Maker knows we can use all the help we can get. The ruin’s half buried under this forest, and it’s been hell trying to get it all uncovered.”

“What kind of ruins?” Ellana asks, intrigued despite herself.

Merrill’s eyes get even wider, if that was possible. “You don’t know?”

Ellana’s eyes shoot Dr. Felassan a rather ungrateful look. “I was told I would get more information about it once I arrived.”

“Well then,” says Dr. Kenric with a grin. “Put your things away and we’ll be more than happy to talk your ear off about, eh, Solas?”

“Forgive me, but I think I need to lie down,” says Dr. Felassan. “I’m not feeling well.”

Book in hand, Dr. Felassan walks over to one of the side doors and ducks into his bedroom.

Ellana doesn’t see him for the rest of the night.

It’s hard not to take his abrupt absence and complete lack of acknowledgement from him personally. Ellana finds herself staring at the door to his bedroom until Merrill nudges her arm.

“You can put your things in my room,” she says. “I have a bunk bed!”

Ellana pulls her suitcase into the room and looks around. Bunk beds on one side, a dresser and a nightstand on the other. There are few personal effects, but lots of flowers in vases or sitting on the window sill or hanging in a string across the bottom of the top bunk.  It makes her smile.

“I usually take the bottom bunk, but you can have whichever one you’d like,” says Merrill, flitting beside her like an anxious butterfly. “The bottom drawers on the dresser are yours.”

“The top one’s fine with me.” Ellana parks her suitcase beside the dresser before heading back out into the kitchen.

Dinner is a quiet, but pleasant, affair. Bram (as he insists to be called) and Merrill fill her in with the details of the ruins they’re uncovering with the fervor of fanatics. It’s part of an old fort, probably belonging to the Emerald Knights, though they haven’t uncovered any pieces of armor or weaponry to confirm that fact.

“It’s definitely Dalish,” Merrill assures her, as if Ellana would walk out if it wasn’t.

“If only I could get my hands on a buckle,” moans Bram. “I could tell you exactly how old the ruins are, right down to the decade. Alas, the forest has downright devoured it. The steps alone are under half a foot of dirt. It’ll be weeks yet before we can uncover any personal effects.”

“It didn’t want to be found,” says Cole. “They’ve hurt the others.”

Like Coach Bull in a steak house, the history nerd inside Ellana perks up at the description of the ruins. No matter how much she didn’t want or ask to be here, she can’t help it. It’s been nearly a year since she read a history book that wasn’t for class, and godsdamn it, Ellana misses it.

After dinner, Ellana unpacks her suitcase and sets out her clothes for tomorrow. Merrill advises for an early bedtime, as everyone gets up around six in the morning to get ready. Hopped up on a cocktail of jetlag mixed with curiosity and a touch of anxiety, Ellana evades sleep for what feels like hours. Only the sound of Merrill’s gentle snoring – which strongly resembles Josephine’s – lulls Ellana to sleep.  

 

Despite the unsettling name, the Emerald Graves is beautiful. She had only come here once before, as a toddler with her parents, too long ago to even remember. Trees tower like sentinels, as far as the eye can see, so thick on the ground that they tint the sunlight green **.** Boulders large as houses stick out from the ground, with sharp cliffs that hover over them. There is not a single sign of modern civilization anywhere past the cabins, not a beer can or gum wrapper in sight.

The ruins lie only an hour’s hike away from the cabin, but it feels like an eternity to Ellana, whose sleep deprivation sits in her limbs like injected lead. Only the coffee Bram made that morning keeps her going.

That and Dr. Felassan, who also looks like he had a rough night and yet sets the pace for everyone else, his long legs loping effortlessly over rocks and tree roots and hills, even with the extra burden of the cooler packed with their lunches.

He asked her once, when she tripped over a tree root, if she needed him to slow down and that was all it took ensure that she would never lag again.

Luckily, Merrill provides excellent distraction.

“You’re a student at Skyhold, yes?” she asks Ellana. “Do you know a professor named Varric Tethras?”

“Oh my gods.” Ellana nearly trips over a vine.  “You have got to be kidding me.”

Merrill looks at her a bit uncertainly. “ . . . No?”

“Sorry, I just – I can’t believe I’m in the middle of the Dalish wilderness a thousand miles away and I _still_ run into someone Varric knows. How is that even possible?”

A small snort – laughter? Mockery? – comes from Dr. Felassan, the only sign of life they’ve gotten out of him since he stumbled from his bedroom that morning. (He’s notoriously not a morning person, apparently).

“Varric was my professor in Kirkwall,” says Merrill, “before he transferred.”

It hits her then. “It’s you! You’re the Dalish friend he talks about!”

Merrill beams. “He talks about me?”

“He mentions you all the time.”

“Oh, _good._ I worry that he forgets about me. I try to write as often as I can, but I’m always in places like this, far away from cities. I don’t have much opportunity to see him or the others.”

“The others?”

Merrill spends the rest of the hike regaling Ellana with tales of her time at Kirkwall State University and her friends there. It reminds Ellana of her own time at Skyhold – getting into ridiculous situations with a group of people who shouldn’t fit together but do. It almost hurts to listen to the wistfulness in Merrill’s voice. This will be Ellana someday – she’s still in the middle of it now, but in a couple of years she’ll graduate and everyone will go their own way and all she’ll have left are stories.

And she’s here, stuck in the Dales, rather than making memories with Josephine. Resentment spikes in her, but she tries to swallow it down.

The sight of the ruins near instantly banishes her negativity. At first glance, they’re underwhelming – tall lumpy shapes covered in vines and leaves and dirt. They stand in a broken circle, the main entrance a dug-out tunnel that traveled lazily upward. Inside, piles of shovels and trowels and brushes and tools Ellana had never seen before sit under large swathes of canvas stretched out over poles, providing shade and shelter from possible rain. The floor – or ground since only patches of stone had been uncovered – are sectioned off into a grid with stakes and pink ribbon. Piles of dirt and vines and roots sit along the far wall.

In short, it’s a mess.

“Are you sure there’s something underneath all of this?” Ellana asks, standing in the middle of the circle and looking up at the green covered walls. It looks so broken, almost beyond saving.

Bram laughs. “They don’t show these pictures in Thedas Geographic, do they? Archeology is mostly hard, manual labor. They don’t really show this part in the movies.”

“It sleeps here, stubborn, stuttering, unable to reach out. Waiting.,” says Cole, sighing.

He almost sounds like he’s quoting something, a fragment of poetry from a lost epic. No one comments on it, though, so Cole must quote fairly often. Ellana had a guy in Varric’s composition class that spoke almost entirely in dialogue from some cult classic TV show she’d never heard of. Maybe Cole’s one of _those_ people.

They put Ellana to work helping uncover the walls. They stand at least two stories tall in places, two stacked rings of arches from what Ellana can see of the tiny portion that’s already been uncovered. A carpet of ivy covers every other inch, so thick that sunlight doesn’t trickle through the spaces between the arches. Small towers stretch up like fingers on the very top corners with only a hint of stone peeking from underneath the vines.

Bram hands her a machete, the leather sheath for it that hooks onto her waist, and a pair of hedge clippers. “Do you know how to use these?” he asks.

Ellana raises her eyebrow at him. “I’m _Dalish_. What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” he says good-naturedly. “You’re the second ever Dalish elf I’ve met.”

She smiles. “I could build a house out of sticks and nails. I think I can handle a pair of hedge trimmers.”

Bram shows her where to pile her debris and to alert him or Dr. Felassan or Merrill to anything she finds that’s not organic. Then he settles down beside one of the portioned off squares and gently removes each layer of dirt. Merrill and Cole work their own square together beside his, while Dr. Felassan sets up his tools and notes at one of the canvas covered worktables.

Ellana has done landscaping work before – trimming rose bushes and hedges, clearing overgrowth from old fences, digging trenches and steps and tilling fields.

None of that compares to this. None of that could even _prepare_ her for this. These vines, grown unhindered for _hundreds_ of years, are as thick as her arm and they’ve anchored themselves into the layers of dirt underneath with stubborn ferocity. Not to mention that hundreds of smaller vines have intertwined together to form clumps of greenery thick as carpet. It takes Ellana ten minutes of hacking to get rid of one such clump.

It’s gardening the same way parkour is just a leisurely stroll.

 

Twenty feet away, Ellana’s favorite author dons a beat-up baseball cap and massages sunscreen into the tips of his ears. Twenty feet away, Ellana’s favorite author scans a worn notebook with the same fingers that typed _The Rise and Fall of Arlathan_.

Twenty feet away stands the most prolific Elvhen archeologist, living and breathing and _existing_ in Ellana’s peripheral vision, and she is trying to contain herself.

It helps to see him perform ordinary tasks, like sharpen a pencil or wipe sweat away from his brow and adjust his hat. It helps to see someone as polished as he looked on the plane wearing a beat-up hat to begin with, along with mud-caked hiking boots and jeans with patches in the knees.

And, she hates to admit it, it helps to see his hideous broken nose. It makes him look mortal.

Even still, _that_ man standing twenty feet away is the person Ellana has been dying to meet since she set foot in Skyhold and he hasn’t said more than three words to her this morning (a murmured “please excuse me” as he inspected the stonework by her feet.)

Is he naturally this quiet or does he genuinely hate her?

Ellana throws herself into the daunting task ahead, letting it distract her. Either he is just quiet and she’s going to look like an obsessive fangirl or he does hate her and it’s going to drive her crazy trying to figure out a way to fix it and look even worse than an obsessive fangirl.

Hours slip by, Bram and Merrill’s earnest small talk a babbling stream of background noise, until the sun hangs directly overhead, beaming through the canopy like little lasers. Sweat drips down Ellana’s back and she realizes too late that perhaps she should have packed her own hat or sunglasses.

A bottle of water appears in her vision, startling her enough to nearly make her drop her machete. Cole is attached to it, his eyes downcast under his wide-brimmed gardening hat.

“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice soft like a bird. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But it’s time for lunch.”

Ellana takes it gratefully and joins the rest of them in the shade of one of the canvas canopies. The lid to the cooler sits propped against the table, and Merrill hands Ellana a turkey sandwich.

“How has your morning gone so far?” she asks Ellana.

“Oh great,” says Ellana. “After four hours I think I’ve uncovered a whole square inch of dirt.”

Bram laughs. “Archeology is slow work. You’re doing fine.”

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” says Dr. Felassan. He doesn’t look up at her from the notebook he’s sketching in. “You need to pace yourself.”

A prickle of frustration rises in her throat. How could he notice how hard she works when he can’t even look at her?

“Your enthusiasm is unparalleled,” says Bram, as if trying to soften the blow. “I wish Collette was still here. She’s a bit like that. Between the two of you, that wall would be uncovered in a week.”

“Who’s Colette?” Ellana asks.

“My research assistant,” says Bram. He pulls out his phone and shows Ellana pictures of a rather surly looking elven woman on top of an Avvar statue. “This was on our first dig together. She said that statue was the ugliest thing she had ever seen and it haunted her nightmares.”

“I don’t blame her,” says Ellana. “It looks like a person melting.”

Bram flips through several more pictures of him and Colette on various dig sites throughout the years like a proud grandfather showing off his grandkids, even though Colette looks barely younger than him.

“She was here at the beginning, but she fell exploring the top of the wall and broke her leg,” he adds mournfully.

“Is she coming back?” Ellana asks.

“Oh undoubtedly, but probably not for the whole summer.”

“Bram is a little lost without her,” adds Merrill, smiling.

“She remembers everything,” says Bram. “I’m lucky if I don’t forget my hat every morning.”

“Hats are very important,” pipes up Cole.

Lunch lasts roughly an hour. It was nice to take a break in the shade of the canopy. Even though the tree canopy is too thick to allow much sunlight through, the temperature and humidity level have steadily risen since this morning. Merrill asks more questions about how Varric is settling at Skyhold – he had transferred only two years ago from Kirkwall, apparently.

“I almost went to Skyhold,” Bram says. “Instead, I went to the University of Orlais.”

Ellana grimaces. “Oh no, Bram. You’re a Cowardly Lion? And here I thought you were turning out to be okay.”

Bram grins good-naturedly. Every expression he makes has a hint of good-naturedness to it. “We’re the Lordly Lions, thank you very much. And at least my school mascot isn’t a goat.”

“That goat is a ram and it has a very colorful and unique history. And we actually win our sporting matches.”

“Oho!” Bram’s eyes light up. “You want to talk about winning sporting matches? Let me tell _you_ –”

A jaunty whistle cuts through their banter. Bram perks up like a dog at the sight of a treat and stands up. Through the dug-out entrance a young dwarven woman appears, dressed in the dark green of a park ranger and swinging a basket under her arms.

“Good afternoon, Lady Harding!” says Bram, waving. His grin threatens to stretch beyond the confines of his face.

“I come bearing gifts,” she says, walking under the canopy – she does not have to duck – and propping the basket up on the table.

Up close, Ellana can see hair orange as a tabby cat peeking underneath her hat and face full of freckles. The Lady Harding flips open the lid of the basket to reveal a nest of brown, hard boiled eggs cushioned in napkins.

Even Dr. Felassan perks up at the sight of them.

“Are these from your farm?” he asks.

“Yep. Freshly laid this morning and boiled. I brought extra since the last batch lasted you lot about five seconds.”

“They were rather eggcelent,” says Bram.

Ellana rolls her eyes, but Harding giggle-snorts. 

“This is Lady Harding and she saves people from cliffs,” says Bram, introducing the dwarf with a little bow.

“It’s Ranger Harding, and I wouldn’t need to save people from cliffs if they would pay attention to their surroundings when they walked.”

“It’s difficult to take notes and look where you’re going at the same time,” says Bram, a smile tugging up the corners of his lips.

An identical smile graces Harding’s lips.  “That’s why you stay in one spot, like Dr. Felassan. I don’t have to worry about him because he’s not an idiot.”

“I like to live dangerously.”

Harding snorts at that. “You’re as dangerous as a cupcake.” She turns to Ellana. “I heard you guys were getting a new recruit to replace Collette,” she says. “I’m Lace Harding.”

She shakes Ellana’s hand. It’s small but mighty, clenching Ellana’s fingers firm enough to know that Harding could probably whoop her ass if she wanted, even if Ellana stood a foot taller. “Ellana Lavellan.”

“How’s your first day going?” Harding asks.

“It’s . . . going.” Ellana glances over at the wall. The only indication of her back breaking labor is the pile of vines on the ground – the wall looks as if she hadn’t touched it.

“Yeah, that ivy is a giant pain in the ass,” says Harding. “There’s my handiwork.” She points to one of bald patches on the other side of the ruins. “That took me all day.”

“You work here?”

“I volunteer, sometimes. When I get a day off. Some of the other rangers have come in too.”

“She is being modest,” speaks up Dr. Felassan. “Ranger Harding discovered and reported this place.”

“That’s right,” says Bram. “She’s like the explorers of old! None of this would exist without her.”

A shy smile blooms on Harding’s face. “That’s not – I just like to wander, really. You guys are doing all the real work.”

Thus starts a compliment war between Bram and Harding. Ellana shoots a speculative look over to Merrill, who looks back at Ellana, wide eyed and oblivious.

Gods, she wishes Josephine were here. Or Varric. Someone needs to start a betting pool.

“Anyway,” says Harding, turning away from Bram, her cheeks tinted rose, “I’ve got to start heading back. There’s a campsite full of drunk high school kids I need to check on. I swear if I find even one beer can, I’ll get one of the bears to pee on their car.”

“Don’t forget to check the plants,” says Bram. He turns to Ellana. “Lady Harding is very picky about which plants you pull up.”

Harding throws him a glare that has no heat in it. “I am when it’s Royal Elfroot. It’s _endangered_.”

“How can you tell the difference between that and regular Elfroot?”

“Royal Elfroot has a bluish tint to it,” says Ellana. “And it grows taller and thicker.”

“Exactly,” says Harding. “I figured I wouldn’t need to brief you on the local flora and fauna.”

“I grew up about three hours from here,” says Ellana. “There’s nothing here I haven’t seen before.”

“Well thank the Maker for that. Maybe you can educate this one about rashvine.” Harding jabs a thumb at Bram. “I can’t always be around to save him.”

“Oh, trust me, rashvine and I are old friends,” says Ellana as Bram shudders.

Harding says goodbye with a jaunty wave, her whistling echoing in the trees long after she disappeared. They split the eggs, which were still somewhat warm and utterly delicious, and then head back to work. Ellana returns to her spot at the wall. Dr. Felassan’s words float in her head – _you need to pace yourself_ – and she finds herself irrationally disagreeing.

Does he think she’s some kind of wuss? An academic with just the strength to pick up her books? She had worked entire days doing back-breaking farm work. She can handle a few more hours of trimming vines, for Creators’ sake!

She resumes her task with a vicious intensity and doesn’t let up for the next four hours.

They stop around five. Ellana has roughly three square feet of vines clipped and a mound of plant life as tall as her waist. Exhaustion makes the trek back to the cabin much quieter than the morning. Ellana and Merrill carry the empty cooler listlessly between them. Ellana’s body feels like a phone battery on one percent, a forcible shutdown on the horizon. Indeed, she barely lasts through a dinner of salad and cold cuts before collapsing on her top bunk.

In seconds she sleeps like the dead.

 

Merrill’s alarm doesn’t even faze Ellana. Merrill herself has to rock Ellana’s shoulder to get her to wake up.

“ _Oh Dhea,_ sleepy-head!” Merrill says brightly.

Ellana just groans. Judging from her sleep posture, she hasn’t moved an inch since her head hit the pillow. Sometime in the night her arms have been injected with cores of lead. She can barely lift them to wipe the sleep from her eyes. Shaky as a newborn halla, she slowly sits up and swings her legs over the ladder.

Everywhere hurts.

Her legs give out and she slides down, slamming her chin on one of the steps before landing on her ass in the floor.

“Oh my Creators, Ellana, are you alright?” Merrill yelps.

Everywhere hurts _more_. Ellana looks up at the ceiling, gray with early morning light, and scours her achy body for the motivation to stand up.

Years spent working on farms, plowing up fields, picking orchards, running for hours in the woods and now, after four years of minimum wage jobs and school, and she’s reduced to this. Done in by a ladder and a few hours of gardening.

Pathetic.

Merrill leans down and grabs Ellana by the arm, pulling her up with surprising strength.

“I’m fine,” groans Ellana. “Just - pretend you didn’t see this.”

“You might have overdone it yesterday.” Merrill looks her over and tsks. “Do you want to stay in today and get some rest?”

 _You should pace yourself_. Dr. Felassan’s reaction if she slept today would be unbearable. Gods, she already looks like an incompetent newbie ruining his dig site as it is.

“Hell no. I’ll be fine. I’ll go easy today.”

“Alright.” Merrill doesn’t look to sure but she follows Ellana out to the kitchen anyway.

 

Every step on their morning hike is agony. She feels like a robot left out in the rain, her joints rusted over, her limbs heavy iron. She lags behind everyone else and she can’t even find the strength to care. For a while Cole walks with her, a bright shadow just within arm’s reach if Ellana were to stumble. Every so often Dr. Felassan, who leads as always, casts a look her way over his shoulder.

It irritates the shit out of her. She doesn’t want his concern, especially since it comes with that hint of smug victory that he was right about yesterday.

(It’s easy to forget who he really is when he irritates her.)

After a small eternity, they finally arrive at the site. Ellana dons her gloves and picks up the sheers. It takes a minute to find her patch from yesterday. Is it her imagination or did some of the vines grow back over night?

Cole appears next to her with his own pair of trimmers. “Where should I start?” he asks, blinking owlishly at her.

“I don’t know.” Ellana surveys the wall above them. It looks utterly insurmountable. She could work all summer and never see stone. “I feel like a prince in a fairytale, asked to do an impossible task to rescue the princess.”

“The forest is a jealous lover,” says Cole with a nod. “It will not let go so easily.” He surveys the greenery above them for a moment. “Perhaps we should think in layers and not squares.” He cuts his hand through the air in a line.

“Layers?” Ellana looks at the wall with new eyes.

They formulate a game plan; Cole sits on the ground and trips the vines at their base, while Ellana stands overhead and trims them across. Then they gently pull the vines off the wall in horizontal layers.

It’s more efficient and easier than Ellana’s aimless hacking the day before. But it sucks. Cole works faster than her, happily inching on his knees in the grass, humming a tune in his own little world.  Ellana is a slug behind him. A useless, pathetic slug with arms that barely work. Each hack of the machete is agony, each stubborn snip of the clippers makes her arms shake. But when she looks back so survey her progress, it feels like barely inches.

Anger starts simmering in her chest. Her arms barely have the strength to squeeze the hedge clippers or swing the machete and her legs shake with the effort to reach the level on her tip toes.

She throws the hedge trimmers onto the ground. “Please tell me that we have something better than glorified kitchen scissors to take care of this mess,” she says. “I need a chainsaw.”

“This work is too delicate for chainsaws,” says Dr. Felassan, pausing beside her. “There could be carvings or paintings underneath, which you would destroy trying to hack it free. You need to be more careful.”

When he picks up the hedge clippers and hands them to her, it feels like a condemnation. Ellana takes them without a word, an apology sticking stubbornly in the back of her throat. He looks at her as if searching for some kind of flaw, and Ellana’s eyes are probably shooting daggers at him right now but she can’t control it. His features remain inscrutable, so whatever judgement he has passed upon remains unknown. He lingers in front her, almost as if challenging her to stay something.

And Ellana desperately wants to say something, but she smothers the words before they can escape and set fire to whatever hopes of a professional relationship she could have with him.

Almost disappointed, Dr. Felassan turns and walks away. Ellana turns back to the vines, fingers gripping the hedge clippers tight enough to hurt.

As a child, Ellana did not deal well with criticism. Even the most gentle, well-meaning comment turned her into a stubborn snapping monster that gladly bit any hand that tried to feed it. Of course, after her parents died, Ellana did not deal well with any kind of emotions, but criticism stung most of all. It took everything in her just to get out of bed and give her life some semblance of normalcy and the thought that anyone would dare imply she was doing any part of that wrongly felt akin to lighting a stick of dynamite.

It’s one of the (many) bad habits Istie broke her out of. She taught Ellana that criticism was just a tool of improvement and not personal. That it was up to Ellana’s discernment to consider it or disregard it entirely.

But no matter her years of growth and change, something about the way Dr. Fellassan criticizes her makes Ellana feel eight years old again and feral. Maybe it’s subject of her own history, maybe it’s because Ellana is trying her best with very little input or advice from anyone, but every reproach of Dr. Felassan’s feels personal.

Right now, she desperately needs Coach Bull’s punching bag, but all she has is the _delicate_ task of this stupid wall, so Ellana hefts the hedge trimmers _delicately_ in her hands and _delicately_ snip the vines.

 

Dr. Felassan eats his lunch of egg salad quickly and returns to excavating his square meter of dirt with barely a word to anyone.

“He has been acting very strange lately,” Merrill whispers. “I’m getting a little worried. He’s not usually this grumpy,” she adds to Ellana. “Really, I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“His words are stuck,” says Cole. “Sticky, stubborn, everything tastes wrong.”

Once again Ellana glances at everyone’s reaction to such a weird comment, but Bram just nods as if Cole made perfect sense.

Maybe Common isn’t the kid’s first language. Or maybe Cole just speaks a language of his own.

“I haven’t seen a nose like that since – well since my last family reunion,” says Bram. “Starkhaven reunions always get dicey. But I have no doubt it pains him, even if he doesn’t say much about it.”

“He doesn’t like his medicine,” says Cole. “It makes him sleep too much.”

“He doesn’t need any help in that department,” Merrill sighs.

Dr. Felassan glances over at them, as if he can read their lips, so Bram hastily changes the subject to the last fall’s Skyhold/Orlais U field hockey match.

 

Ellana pushes on for the rest of the afternoon, though she works slower than that morning. Dr. Felassan’s presence burns bright at the edge of her awareness, like the glare of sunlight on a tin roof. His criticism haunts her and not just because of the embarrassment it caused. Ellana had a sneaking suspicion that he hates her, but now the fact that he never acted this quiet or grouchy until Ellana showed up practically confirms it.

So she meets her favorite author, breaks his nose, and earns his eternal loathing.

 _Thanks, Fen’Harel_ , she thinks viciously. _This is_ so _much better than sipping beach-side mimosas with Josephine in Antiva. What would I do without your meddling?_

 

Merrill practically frog marches Ellana into the bathroom with orders to take a long hot shower once they arrive back to the cabin. The heat feels amazing on her sore muscles, though the water pressure leaves much to be desired. Once Ellana emerges, pink skinned and soggy hair, Merrill has her sit on the bottom bunk while she gives Ellana’s shoulders a massage.

“You really – do not –” Ellana bites back an obscene sounding groan, “have to do all this.”

Merrill’s fingers look brittle and hollow, like little sparrow legs, and yet they knead Ellana’s shoulders with the intensity of a pissed off baker.

“I remember my first days in the field,” she says. “My enthusiasm caused me to throw my back out and I had to lay down for two straight days while Dr. Felassan had to bring me my food and water. It was utterly humiliating.”

“I bet. He probably – wasn’t – very happy with you,” Ellana says in between gasps.

“Oh, no, he wasn’t angry. He took very good care of me. But I was desperate for a good impression and I’m afraid I came off a little foolish. You need to take care, Ellana, before you do something stupid.”

Ellana closes her eyes and lets Merrill work whatever ancient elven magic has possessed her hands. Once she finishes Ellana’s shoulders and back, she moves onto Ellana’s calves, sitting on the floor and pulling them into her lap.

“Merrill,” Ellana protests, reaching down. “I can do –"

“Hush.” Merrill lightly smacks Ellana’s hands away. “Tell me about Wycome. I’ve never been there.”

“It’s the same as any other Dalish town,” Ellana says. “Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

“Well I grew up outside of Kirkwall, in the mountains. It might be different here. What do you eat for Anduill’s Feast?”

They exchange recipes and stories of past holidays, things Ellana hasn’t thought about in years. No matter how supportive and understanding her Skyhold friends are, it’s different to talk about her own culture with a person who shares it. It’s like she didn’t know just how heavy the weight of carrying her culture alone felt until she shared it with Merrill. Still, it comes with a sting of homesickness, the pain of which she sees reflected in Merrill’s eyes even as they’re both smiling.

“What made you leave?” she asks Merrill.

Instantly she regrets asking. Merrill’s hand on her leg stills and her eyes tighten.

“Oh, just a silly misunderstanding,” she says with a lightness that Ellana does not believe for a second.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t mean to bring up anything painful.”

Merrill smiles and pats her leg. “It is in the past. Now that your muscles have relaxed, I think we should both head to bed. I know you were miserable today. You need your rest.”

Ellana nods, guilt still coiling in her. “I will. Thanks, Merrill.”

“ _Da’rahn_.”

 

The next morning, Ellana’s stiffness has been significantly reduced and she doesn’t embarrass herself climbing down from bed. She feels spry enough to make toast and scrambled eggs for everyone as they shuffle in and out of the common room.

“Look who’s back from the dead,” says Bram, grinning with his damp hair. “I admit, I didn’t think you were going to make it home yesterday without falling on your arse.”

“I’ll take that bet any day,” says Ellana.

They make sandwiches together and pack the cooler. Bram gives Ellana an extra thermos for coffee, which she gratefully takes.

The morning dawns cool and bright, a pinkish glow tainting the mist that winds its way through the trees. Unburdened by apprehension or exhaustion, Ellana fully appreciates the beauty of their hike. She finds herself whistling an old Dalish tune Dany’s grandmother used to sing as they mucked out the halla pens. Merrill, grinning from the other end of the cooler they carry, joins in, humming in a voice clear as crystal.

When they reach the site, Ellana hefts her nemesis, the garden sheers, in her hands with newfound determination.

“Come on, Cole,” she says. “Let’s kick this wall’s ass.”

He happily accompanies her. Ellana paces herself, finding a happy medium that allows her to feel productive without making her muscles hate her. Just before lunch, something strange catches her eye under the thin layer of dirt that lies under the vines. She carefully brushes the wall clean to find a white splotch lying against the grey stone.

“Dr. Felassan?” she asks, looking over her shoulder for him. “Bram? I think I found something. It looks like paint.”

Dr. Felassan appears behind her, silent enough to make her jump. She quickly moves out of his way while he peers over her shoulder at the white splotch. His finger traces where it travels beneath the vines above it.

“Is that what I think it is?” says Bram from some distance away.

“I believe she found a painting,” he says. “Cole, bring the ladder if you please.”

Cole jumps up to comply and Ellana feels excitement swoop in her gut. She found something, something real and significant. She prepares herself to climb up the ladder and uncover the rest, planning how to excavate the vines without damaging the paint underneath.

But when Cole sets up the ladder, Dr. Felassan impatiently climbs up. His arm extends down, hovering just above her head and motioning for the garden sheers. Ellana’s excitement fades to faint disappointment as she places them in his grasp. Everyone stops what they’re doing to watch him gently clip and pull away the vines to reveal what might possibly be a leg painted on the stone beneath.

 Meanwhile, Ellana struggles to keep the resentment at bay – does he not trust her to do this herself? Isn’t this kind of thing why she’s here in the first place? Why bother requesting an extra hand if he didn’t want her actually doing anything significant?

One vine nearly as thick as his wrist proves especially stubborn, and as Dr. Felassan fights it, Ellana notices how dangerously the ladder wobbles. Caught up in their excitement, they forgot to secure it before he climbed up, and he was too impatient to check it himself.

“Dr. Felassan,” she starts, but he waves her off.

“Give me a moment, please.” he says. “I almost got this.”

He climbs up to the very top step of the ladder, following the stubborn vine upward.

“I would step back down, Doctor,” she says, trying again, but Dr. Felassan pays her no attention.

A small bird darts from the tree overhead, swooping low enough to make Dr. Felassan jerk away just as he uproots the vine and that’s when the ladder slips.

Ellana doesn’t think. She jumps behind Dr. Felassan to catch him as if he were some maiden in a fairytale and not two inches taller and several pounds heavier. They both fall to the ground, the wind knocked out of Ellana as he lands on top of her. The back of his head cracks against her nose and pain blooms across her face.

 He quickly rolls off of her, but Ellana still can’t breathe and something warm and wet streams down over her mouth.

“Ellana!” Dr. Felassan cries, crouching beside her and lifting her into a sitting position, his side warm against her back.

“Oh, merciful Creators!” Merrill gasps, her hand over her mouth. “That’s a lot of blood!”

“Call Harding on the walkie,” Dr. Felassan barks.

“I’m already on it,” says Bram.

Ellana can’t think of anything except the pain radiating from her head. She wipes at her mouth and her hand comes back dripping in her own blood.

Broken nose.

 _The universe has a fucked-up sense of humor_.

“She says she’ll meet you at the cabin,” Bram says. “She’s bringing her med kit.”

Dr. Felassan looks down at her. “Can you stand?”

Ellana finds the strength to roll her eyes. “This is not the first broken nose I’ve had, thank you.”

She climbs to her feet, Dr. Felassan’s hands steadying her. The pain flares and blood drips steadily down her face. She must look like something out of a horror movie.

Immediately Dr. Felassan strips his shirt off and hands it to her.

“What are you doing?!” Ellana turns her gaze upwards, focusing firmly on his face.

“You’re bleeding and you’re worried about modesty?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, something faintly resembling a smirk graces his features.

Correction: the universe _and_ Dr. Felassan have a fucked-up sense of humor.

“Fair point,” she concedes, taking the shirt and pressing it against her nose.

“Come. I’ll walk you back to the cabin.”

“I can make it on my own,” she protests.

The hike will be shitty enough without his awkward, arrogant silence, but Dr. Felassan shakes his head.

“It was not a suggestion. Come.”

He gestures for her to lead, following close behind, a hand on her elbow to steady her. Thank gods for that because Ellana doesn’t know what she would do if she had to stare at his naked back the entire way to the cabin.

The trek to the cabin passes in a blur. Dr. Felassan guides her with short directions from behind, but otherwise the silence reigns as unbearable as she predicted. The pain from her nose keeps her from caring very much, however. All she can focus on is the next step ahead and then the next and then the next.

After a small eternity, the cabin finally looms into view. Once inside, Dr. Felassan sits her down at the kitchen table while he busies himself in the kitchen.

Ellana fixes her gaze to the floor.

_I will not ogle my favorite author who hates my guts. I will not ogle my favorite author who hates my guts. I will not ogle my favorite author who hate my guts._

Oh, who the hell was she kidding? She was never good at resisting temptation, not to mention she refuses to look like some blushing innocent.

Lifting her eyes, she casts her gaze casually about the kitchen before landing on Dr. Felassan.

All those years when Ellana thought of Dr. Felassan in her mind (he refused to have an author photo in the back of his books) she pictured an older gentleman, with a beard, curly grey hair, dressed in one of those cardigans with patches on the elbows. A distinguished grandfather type.

She did not expect someone as young looking as the real Dr. Felassan and _definitely_ not someone with the lean, hard physique he hid under those ratty t-shirts.  

Gods _damn_.

Freckles dot his shoulders and back like paint speckles as he bends over the sink to wet some paper towels, and Ellana can’t stop looking at the way his back muscles move underneath his skin. The second he turns to her, Ellana averts her gaze again, her cheeks heating up. Hopefully the swelling, bleeding, and eventual bruising will cover up any hints of a blush.

“Hold still and tell me if it hurts,” he says before kneeling in front of her and dabbing the blood away from her face.

This is something Ellana can definitely do on her own in the bathroom, but she says nothing. Mainly because it’s hard to protest when he’s wiping around her mouth, but also because there is something . . . arresting about this proximity.

Despite how unfriendly he’s been, despite the bruising that still lingers under his eyes, Dr. Felassan is a very striking man. The pads of his long, graceful fingers press against her jawline with gentle ease. His eyes are the soft grey of heather in spring, and they focus on her with the same kind of intensity as one of his discoveries. His freckles are starting to peek out from underneath his bruises.

She wonders why he’s going through all this trouble. It’s not like she did any of this for him four days ago.

Once or twice he meets her gaze and there’s something in his eyes, something . . . familiar. Intimate. As if he knows her already. It makes something swoop low in her gut and she casts her gaze down to his shoulders, counting the freckles sprayed across them. The stark line of his collar bone draws her gaze like a magnet.

_Fucking Creators, Ellana, get a hold of yourself. This man hates you. He’s an arrogant prick._

The front door opens and Ellana throws her gaze in relief to Harding, who stomps dirt off her shoes before stepping inside.

“Is there some kind of nose breaking competition I don’t know about?” she says. She hefts a small duffle back onto the table beside Ellana. Dr. Felassan steps aside to giver her room. Harding peers closely at Ellana’s face.

“Yeah, and the prize is five sovs” says Ellana before she can help herself.

Dr. Felassan snorts so softly she might have imagined it.

Harding reaches into the duffel bag and pulls out a small flashlight. “I’m going to check for signs of a concussion. Hold still.”

She shines the light in Ellana’s eyes and asks questions about possible symptoms, like dizziness or nausea or ringing in the ears.

“So far you seem okay. I’ll need Solas to monitor your condition for the next couple of days just to make sure. As for your nose, it’s already starting to swell, so it’s hard to tell if it’s actually crooked or not. There’s not a whole lot anyone can do for you, at least until the swelling goes down.” she adds regretfully. “Just shove some gauze in your nostrils, ice it, and take some pain killers.”

“I know,” says Ellana. “I had my nose broken before when I was a kid.”

“Me too! How did yours happen?

Harding zips open her med pack and pulls out rolls of gauze, scissors, and two gel freeze packs that she squeezes to activate. She starts cutting the gauze into small strips.

“Fist fight,” Ellana says. Dr. Felassan raises an eyebrow at her, which she pointedly ignores.

Harding grins. “Me too! Well, technically I ran into a tree, but it was because of a fist fight.”

She hands Ellana strips of gauze and the freeze packs. “If you don’t stop bleeding, which it’s already slowing down, or you see clear discharge drip out of your nose, head to the hospital. Otherwise you just gotta – ”

“Suck it up,” Ellana finishes.

Harding smiles at her again. “You got that right. I can head into town and pick you up some pain killers.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dr. Felassan speaks up. “I already have some.”

“Perfect, because town is like an hour away.” Harding packs up her kit. “Is there anything else you need?”

Ellana shakes her head. “No. Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

She nods at Dr. Felassan. “He did more than me. Thank him. See you guys in a couple of days.”

Harding leaves, her whistling growing steadily fainter. Dr. Felassan disappears into his room for a minute and reappears with a small bottle of white pills.

“Do you have any medical allergies?” he asks.

“No.”

“These are not narcotics, so feel free to help yourself.”

She looks up at his nose, which is still slightly swelled, and the greenish bruising around it. Guilt squirms in her gut.

“Don’t you need it for yourself?”

“I do not like pain medication. I have other means of restoring myself.”

She remembers Cole mentioning that Dr. Felassan never takes his pills.

He fetches her a glass of water, and for the first time she doesn’t feel like he completely regrets her entire existence. It gives her hope.

“We match,” she says, trying to smile and wincing.

The corner of his lips twitch in a smile before he smothers it. She swallows one of the pills.

“I think this makes us even now,” she adds. “You don’t have to hate me quite so much.”

“I don’t hate you,” he says, his eyebrows raising in what seems like genuine surprise. “What makes you think that?”

Is he serious right now? Ellana crosses her arms.

“The only time you speak to me is to criticize me. You barely look at me. It hasn’t exactly been a warm welcome the last couple of days. I figured you were still pissed off about what I did to your nose.”

“It was an accident,’” he says, and he actually looks a little shamefaced. “I am not angry over that.”

But he is angry over something, or at least he’s implied it. For the first time, it hits Ellana that Fen’Harel might have foisted her on Dr. Felassan, that he had no choice in whether or not to take her. They might be in this shit situation together.

“Listen,” she says, “I don’t know what you were told about me, but I didn’t ask to come here.”

There’s a tense pause and she wonders if she just screwed up.

“Are you saying you don’t want to be here?” he asks, tone mild but eyes sharp.

Oh, she definitely screwed up.

“No! I’m saying that it wasn’t my choice to be here.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Ellana doesn’t know what to say. Nothing seems to be coming out right and any response she has just seems to piss him off even more. “I’m not qualified to be here. I’m sure there are better people out there who should have earned this spot. If I replaced someone that should have been here, I just want you to know that I did not make that decision.”

“I see,” he says, after a moment. The intensity of his gaze relaxes, to her relief. “You were a surprise to be sure, but not a replacement. My only qualifications in any assistant is an inquisitive nature and an eagerness to learn. Do you think those apply to you?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation.

“Then you are qualified.”

Ellana searches his face for any sign of mockery, but his expression remains placid as a lake in winter.

“It’s that simple?”

“It’s that simple.”

She almost explains that it was his book that got her into college, but shyness keeps her mouth shut. They barely know each other – she can’t come off like a crazy obsessive fan, especially when she’s still not entirely sure he isn’t a total asshole.

“I know you will probably not like this idea, but I suggest that you stay here for the day and rest,” he says.

He’s right, she doesn’t like it. “Just because it wasn’t my idea to come here doesn’t mean that I’m going to be a lazy ass about it.”

“After yesterday, no one could accuse you of laziness,” he says with that glimpse of a smile. She wonders how radiant the full effect would be. “But take it from someone with more recent personal experience. You are going to need your rest. Keep that freeze pack over your face and put the gauze in.”

Ellana gives him a crooked smile. “Is that what you did?”

“Yes. Once I got back from the emergency room.”

“I bet that was a waste of time.”

“It was,” he said grimly.

 

Despite her misgivings, Ellana takes his advice and lies on the couch with the freeze pack on her face while her nose throbs. She hates to admit it, but this could explain at least some of Dr. Felassan’s unwelcome demeanor that first day. Her nose hurts like a godsdamn bitch. She can’t imagine having to traverse two airports and endure both a cramped plane ride and the two hour drive to the cabin with this kind of pain.

This realization and their early conversation gives her hope. Maybe he’s not the bastard she thought he might be.

She kind of wants to find out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On dhea -- good morning.  
> Lethallan -- word for someone with whom you are familiar with. It sort of connotes a familial like relationship without it having to be a real blood relationship. Like how some people say "cousin" when they aren't cousins. (Though I'm sure we all know this from the game :) )  
> Da’rahn -- no problem. An informal "you're welcome" between friends.
> 
> Let me state that the fact that you cannot properly romance Lace Harding is a goddamn travesty.


	10. The Emerald Graves Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot damn everyone! Happy 4th of July. Also, I hope I never go this long between updates again but when you're a teacher the months of April - June really really really suck. They suck a lot. Have fun with this one, folks, it's over 16k long!

 

“Ellana . . . that’s not a butt, is it?”

Ellana tilts her head. “Oh, it’s definitely a butt.”

Harding squints at the painted image on the rock. The whole morning, they both tag teamed this section of wall, pulling up the vines from their death grip on the stone, carefully brushing the dirt and leaves away to reveal the painted image inch by agonizing inch.

Pointed feet turned to thick calves which turned to what is clearly an elven backside bigger than Ellana’s torso.

“I guess this is what the Dalish considered ‘Elvhen Glory’ back in the day,” Ellana snickers.

“Well it is a pretty great ass. I almost want a selfie with it.”

“I’ll hoist you up.”

Dr. Felassan clears his throat. They both look behind their shoulders guiltily at him.

“I’m sure the full extent of the painting will be just as stunning as this particular . . . section,” he continues, and Harding blushes.

“You can’t fault us for admiring the art, Dr. Fellassan,” says Ellana.

“This is a dig, not a museum, Miss Lavellan.”

“There’s no need to take your inadequacy out on us. Very few men could live up to _this_.” She raises her hand to gesture at the perfectly proportioned ass hanging above her.

“If I had anything to feel inadequate about, I know I would have the maturity to keep such feelings to myself.”

It’s only been a day since their weird little truce, and Ellana doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Despite their new-found cordiality, a current of antagonism runs through them. Neither of them can resist snarky comments and digs and insinuations, yet none of it feels malicious. In fact, Ellana has fun goading him. It helps her forget just who he is so she doesn’t make a fool of herself.

She and Harding both sneak looks at Dr. Felassan as he walks away.

“Well, he’s right,” Harding whispers. “He’s definitely not inadequate in that department.”

Ellana quickly looks away. Creators, she has got to stop checking him out.

“Let’s get back to work before he has an aneurism,” she says.

 

By the time lunch hits, the sun beams down from an unbearable angle, relentless even through the layers of the canopy. But not even the shade of the canvas could protect them from the humidity that has steadily grown since this morning.

Cole wordlessly hands her a water bottle and two pain pills the moment she leans against the table. By now the swelling of her nose has almost disappeared, leaving behind a bruise as deep purple as Istie’s irises. Merrill fusses over it every morning, and Cole closely monitors her pill intake the whole day. Bram compares the color of her bruising to various flowers to monitor the rate of healing. She’s even caught Dr. Felassan sneaking glances at it, but whether he’s checking up on her or gloating at her misfortune, it’s hard to say.

The humidity has sapped their usual energy, so everyone eats lunch on the ground, using the cooler as a makeshift table.

“I tell you what, I don’t know how you Dalish do it,” says Bram. “I never thought I would miss the constant freezing drizzle of Starkhaven, but this heat is killing me.”

“We don’t even have AC,” Ellana says. “The best thing to do is put your feet in a bucket of cold water and just sit.”

“I might have to try that when we get back to the cabin. So what specialization are you thinking about for your masters?”

“Specialization?” Ellana asks.

“You know, like how my doctorate is in textiles and Early Chantry, or how Solas and Merrill have theirs in Elvhen Studies.”

“Oh.” Ellana squirms a little. “Actually, I’m not a history major. I’m a computer science major.”

Bram and Merrill actually give her blank stares for a moment.

“Then what in Thedas are you doing here, working yourself to the bone, suffering the death of a thousand mosquito bites?” Bram asks.

“I mean, I love history, I just want a job when I graduate,” says Ellana.

Bram laughs, but Dr. Felassan gives her a keen look.

“Do you not enjoy computer science?” he asks her.

Ellana shrugs. “It’s harder than I thought it would be. And it’s definitely not one of my passions. But the field is always growing and it pays well and I enjoy the challenge of it.”

“So, you value money over passion?”

He has that same dangerous combination of mild tone and steely eyes as he did in the cabin. Ellana can’t quite tell if he means to be combative, but her hackles rise all the same.

“I value stability,” Ellana says, matching her tone to his. “I know what it’s like to not have it.”

“Stability is not necessarily a guarantee for joy. Is there purpose in a passionless existence?”

“There are other things besides history that make me happy. I’m not going to live in a depression spiral because I’m not majoring in my favorite subject.”

“You’d be surprised how much of your life your work takes up. It will leave you very little time to pursue your happiness elsewhere. It’s not a waste to chase your dream, even if you risk financial instability. There are options for you.”

Ellana shoots him a look. “You sound like my academic adviser. He wasn’t thrilled with my choice either.”

Dr. Felassan bowed his head, as if humbly accepting a victory. It feels like a hot lick of flame on her temper. “Perhaps you should heed his warming. Speaking from experience, I had many paths I could have turned my life towards, but though the one I chose has cost me, it’s worth every risk and sacrifice to be in places like this, uncovering our own history. I can see your love for this. I would hate to see such potential wasted on a subject you do not love.”

Who the hell does he think he is, some kind of wise mentor from one of Krem’s fantasy novels?

“I’ve made my choice and I’m sticking to it. And when _you_ are paying for my tuition, then maybe I’ll listen to your suggestions,” she tells him sweetly.

That shuts him up real quick. In fact, he presses his lips in a thin, white line as if trying desperately to hold himself back.

“Duly noted,” he says stiffly and mercifully drops the subject.

 

The smell of clover hits her like a one of the Chargers. At first, she smells only the coming rain as the clouds pile overhead, but then the breeze picks up, bringing with it the scent of clover and honeysuckle so strong she almost tastes it.

Immediately, flashes of memories follow. Not any specific event—just Wycome. The slant of the setting sun on Istie’s porch. The stream near her parents’ graves. Market Day. The taste of Mihris’s apples.

Longing wells up from some deep place within her, bringing with her the sudden rush of tears. Ellana grips the garden sheers tighter and takes a deep breath, blinking the tears away before anyone can see them.

She always misses home. Always. It’s a splinter inside of her, a niggling pain that never leaves despite any other newfound happiness. Over the last few years Ellana has learned to lock those memories away, along with those of her parents. If she doesn’t think about it, it doesn’t hurt, and Skyhold has offered her plenty of distractions.

But there is nothing to distract her here. The Dales surround her, a mockery of home that does little to ease her pain. Never has so much and so little separated her from home. Istie’s porch lies only a two-hour drive away and yet it could be across the Waking Sea for all Ellana could set foot there.

 

Harding quickly volunteers to help carry the cooler back to the cabin when she sees Bram pick it up. They chat happily ahead of their group. Harding’s laugh echoes like birdsong at one of Bram’s corny jokes, like something out of one of Josephine’s books. She looks around for someone—anyone—to notice this, but Merrill and Solas are in deep conversation about soil layers, which leaves only Cole.

Hell.

Ellana sidles up to him and whispers close to his ear. “Okay, it’s not just me, right? I’m like, imagining things with the two of them, am I?”

He gives Harding and Bram a thoughtful glance, as if seeing how two puzzle pieces might fit together.

“Home is grey,” he says, voice soft. He looks around as if trying not to get caught. “Harding is sunlight. Her smile fills dark corners. Her freckles are stars on a moonless night. Her hair is the bright copper of new coins.”

Ellana’s eyebrows jump up. Whoo boy, she might have horribly misjudged this entire situation. “ _You’re_ not in love with Harding, are you?”

 “Of course not,” says Cole, looking bewildered. “I imagine that’s what Bram feels when he looks at her.”

“Oh.” Cole must have a poetic soul. She can’t help but think that Varric would love to get his hands on a mind like that. “So how did it all start?”

“Bram was jotting notes and he didn’t see the cliff. Harding grabbed the back of his shirt and saved his life.”

“Well that is certainly one way to earn someone’s eternal devotion.”

Harding leaves them with a cheery wave, climbing into a comically oversized, mud splattered truck. Bram stays and watches it leave before going back inside.

 

Like a hyperactive toddler, once her brain wakes up, sleep is impossible. So, at six thirty in the morning on her first day off, Ellana climbs out of bed on shaky legs and makes coffee in the ghost town of the kitchen. The only sounds besides the coffee maker are chirping birds and faint snoring coming from Bram’s room.

Ellana breathes in deep and soaks up the quiet. She hasn’t had a moment to herself since she got here. Once her coffee is poured, she creeps out onto the porch.

The sun has yet to crest over the horizon, the morning still grey and new. Cole sits in the grass beyond the porch in a threadbare t-shirt, feeding lettuce and strawberries to a fat brown nug.

“Shhh,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “Don’t scare him.”

Silently, Ellana leans against the railing of the porch and sips her coffee, watching. The nug sniffs Cole’s fingers when he runs out of strawberries, and then burrows its nose into his hand in an impatient demand for affection. Cole dutifully strokes down its back and scratches it behind the ears. Eventually it tires of his attentions and scampers off into the grass.

“You like nugs?” she asks him, walking out into the yard.

Cole looks up at her. “Nugs are kind. Almost everything is bigger than they, but they're still happy. If you hold out your hand, they will nuzzle it. It's how they call you ‘friend.’”

“Have you given him a name?”

“Don’t they have their own names?” he asks, “in their language?”

Ellana studies him a moment, gaging his seriousness. Either he still maintains the innocence of a seven-year-old or he’s the world’s slickest smartass, and she’s still not quite sure which one it is. She decides to play along until she figures it out.

“Well, yeah. But we can’t really speak nug, so . . . he should have a human nickname, don’t you think? Wouldn’t it make him feel accepted?”

“I suppose. I’ll have to think about it.” He stands up. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

It’s weird the way he asks her this, as if he’s reciting lines from a script.

“Sort of. Just wish I could sleep in. What about you?”

Cole shakes his head. “I don’t sleep well at night. I don’t like the dark.”

“Why not?” she asks.

Something in Cole’s face shutters closed and she regrets her question.

“I have nightmares,” he said simply and she lets the matter drop.

“I’m going to take a look around,” she says instead. “I haven’t gotten to do much exploring around here. You wanna come?”

“I can show you the river nearby.”

Cole leads her happily down a deer trail barely visibly through the long grass and boulders. Sure enough, roughly twenty minutes later they come to the shore of a wide and shallow river. Trees stretch across either side of it, as if trying to reach each other’s hands.

A few feet away the sandy beach appears, a rope swing tied to the trunk of a gnarled oak. It’s a perfect swimming hole, which is probably why they put the cabin nearby.

“Are there other cabins nearby?” she asks.

“The closet one is almost a mile away,” Cole replies. “We are the last one. It’s the closet we could get to the site and still have a place to sleep and shower. Even so, Solas and Bram brought tents and sleeping bags. I hope we camp by the site. I like sleeping out in the open.”

“I haven’t done that in a long time,” she says wistfully.

By the time they make it back, Merrill and Bram are bustling in the kitchen.

“Oi, there you are!” Bram says from the stove. “Thought I was going to have to call Harding for a search.”

“I was showing her the river,” says Cole.

Merrill’s eyes light up. “Oh, I love the river! Isn’t it beautiful? One day we should take a swim.”

“You two hungry or what?” asks Bram. “We’re making pancakes.”

Cole’s eyes light up, and Ellana smiles.

“We’re coming.”

 

In the kitchen, Merrill mixes the batter and pours it in the pan and Bram flips the pancakes with unerringly timing. He’s humming the jaunty kind of tune that accompanies drinking songs, and Merrill occasionally hums in harmony with him. Standing side by side, their short hair sticking out, they almost look like siblings.

More coffee percolates happily, and Ellana helps herself to another cup.

“Where’s Dr. Felassan?” she asks.

Bram snorts. “Ach. You won’t see that egghead until at least ten o’clock on a weekend. He’s a late riser.”

“He likes to sleep,” Cole says. “He likes his dreams.”

True to their word, Dr. Felassan did not emerge until the feast of pancakes lay in ruins on their plates. Merrill had managed to salvage two flapjacks from Cole’s unending appetite and left them cooling on the counter by the stove.

Instead of his usual tea, Dr. Felassan aims straight for the coffee – so black it should be an anomaly in space – and pours himself a splash of it into his usual tea cup. He downs it like a shot, grimacing the entire time. Ellana watches this with a raised brow but says nothing.

The day belongs to them. Cole naps periodically on the couch. Merrill embroiders flowers and vines on a worn pair of jeans. Dr. Felassan has disappeared outdoors somewhere.

Ellana investigates the back porch, Varric’s book in hand. It’s wide and shaded, with rocking chairs and a table set for six with squashy swivel chairs. To her surprise, Dr. Felassan already occupies one of the rocking chairs with a book of his own.

A very familiar book.

“Is that a _Hard in Hightown_ book?” Ellana asks.

Dr. Felassan jumps and nearly drops the book.

“Ah. Yes.” he says, oddly embarrassed. “I’ve promised Varric I would read this for months, but I keep forgetting.”

Ellana stares at him. “You know Varric,” she says flatly. It’s not even a question anymore.

“Of course I know Varric,” says Dr. Felassan, blinking up at her. “I teach at Skyhold when I’m in between digs. Our offices are in the same building.”

Ellana knows this, obviously. For years she had dreamed of bumping into him on campus, casually waving at each other from across the Quad like old friends – a wish that came true in the worst way possible, because the Universe loves its little jokes. Now she will take the secret admiration of his work to her fucking grave. He’s smug enough as it is.

“I’ve never seen you there,” she says instead, plopping into the rocking chair next to him.

“I’ve been away the last few semesters, but I’ve taught there for years.”

“Years? Just how old are you?”

His eyebrows raise up at her impertinence. The question was blurted out without thinking, but Ellana stands by it. It’s impossible to tell his age just from looking. Dr. Felassan does not have the bearing of someone young, but neither does he look old. He’s like some ageless immortal.

“Older than you,” he says finally, flipping open his book in an act of finality.

Ellana bites her tongue to keep it from sticking out at him, a la Sera before opening her own book.

They read quietly for a little while. It’s strangely companionable, though hard on her concentration. Ellana watches his expressions in the corner of her eye and tries to guess what scene he might be reading. In fact, she spends more time trying not to notice him than actually reading the book. In the quiet stillness with no work or argument or other people to distract her, the reality of the situation creeps up on her.

This is _the_ Dr. Solas Felassan, breathing and hmming and being a smug jackass less than a foot away from her. She called him old! How is this even her life?

Eventually Merrill peeks her head out onto the balcony.

“Bram is back from the store,” she says. “He says to get the grill ready.”

“I’m on it,” says Ellana.

To her surprise, Bram knows how to handle a grill. She half expects him to burn his eyebrows off, but if you keep his notebook out of his hand, Bram can handle himself with minimal casualties. Ellana makes the marinade out of the herbs and spices he brought for her, while Dr. Felassan and Merrill prepare the salad and corn. By the time Harding shows back up with a pitcher of homemade lemonade, they have a pretty impressive spread lined up.

Merrill says a quiet prayer of thanks to the Creators before she digs in. Ellana watches her with a vague sense of guilt and another stab of homesickness. Istie has never so much as snacked on a strawberry without thanking the Creators for it first. Ellana hasn’t prayed to them in _years_.

The food is fantastic. Ellana has to force herself to slow down so other people could get their own share. She hasn’t had anything grilled in forever; Orlesians pretty much just bake everything and Skyhold banned grills at the apartments after a student prank burned down half of the building a couple of decades ago.

“My compliments to the chef,” says Harding, “For both excellent food and the fact that his cabin is still in one piece.”

“I can’t take credit for the taste,” says Bram, but his face goes pink. “Ellana did the marinating.”

Harding looks at her speculatively. “You have to tell me what you put in this. It’s amazing.”

“I could cop out and say it’s an old Dalish secret, but really it’s just salt, pepper, cumin, and dried spindleweed.”

“That’s why it’s so aromatic.” Harding takes another happy bite. “I love Dalish cooking. You know, between your seasoning and your moonshine, the Dalish could open up a bar and grill around here and make a killing.”

Ellana smiles at the thought. “You really think so?”

“Oh yeah,” says Harding. “Maybe not, like, in the middle of Val Royeaux, but around the border towns? Definitely.”

“I have to admit that I’m a little surprised that you’re the only Dalish volunteer I’ve seen,” says Bram. “When word got out that we found Dalish ruins, I figured they would come from all over. Instead, there’s just you two.”

Dr. Felassan speaks up before Ellana or Merrill could craft a reply. “The Dalish have little interest in factual history, preferring their stories and misguided traditions. They shut out any information that isn’t congruent with what their Keepers have passed down.”

A spark of anger flickers in her chest. Ellana breathes in deep and slowly. Her eyes slide over to Merrill, expecting her to gently correct Dr. Felassan’s massively oblivious reason. But her friend keeps her eyes averted and her mouth closed. So Ellana jumps in.

“There’s a little more to it than that,” she says with all the delicacy she can muster.

“Oh?” Dr. Felassan says. “Pray tell.”

Amazing the amount of challenge one can show in raising his brow just a fraction.

“Yes, I would love to hear from a Dalish perspective,” Bram adds in, cheerfully oblivious.

Ellana hesitates for a moment, because explaining a Dalish perspective on this, particularly _her_ Dalish perspective, would not be delicate or pretty.

What the hell. They asked for it.

“Well, from a Dalish perspective, what generally happens is that no one cared about preserving our heritage for a long time. Ruins, paintings, artifacts were found, but no government or universities would ever send anyone down to excavate them. So, we did it ourselves. We dug up the ruins, we displayed the artifacts in our shops, homes, restaurants. Then, when our heritage became suddenly relevant to humans, they refused to work with us.”

Gods, just thinking about it incenses her. The volume of her voice climbs and she can’t stop it.

“Field teams would swoop into people’s villages and backyards and woods and start excavating without so much as an introduction and ban us from the sites. And then when they were done, they’d pack up all our art and our artifacts and ship them off to museums that we never get to see. So really, the Dalish perspective is that once our heritage falls into human hands, it’s lost.”

“I understand your point of view, but you don’t have all the facts,” says Dr. Felassan. “First of all, Dalish locals were never outright banned from participating in the field work; they were just kept from excavating delicate artifacts because they lacked any official training or experience –”

“ _Experience?_ ” The word bursts out of her. “We excavated our own sites for decades, now all of a sudden we don’t have any experience?”

His brows narrow, giving him the air of a bull, head bowed and ready to charge. “Yes, and many of those artifacts, paintings, and heritage sites were damaged, some irrevocably, because of the carelessness of untrained hands. I admire the effort and the sentiment of preserving one’s heritage, but those sites would have been better off waiting for those field teams –”

“So they can cart away everything we worked so hard to recover –"

“There is nothing stopping the Dalish from seeing their artifacts displayed properly in museums where everyone can appreciate them except for their own stubborn pride and disinterest in the rest of Thedas.”

“The only reason why we’re untrained and _careless_ is because we can’t benefit from the education that everyone else gets. It’s not fair to judge us on doing the best we could do with what we had.”

“It’s entirely fair. What’s stopping them from perusing their education?”

Ellana blinks at him. “ _Money_.”

“Is it really? You’re here. Merrill’s here. There are thousands of sovereigns worth of scholarships exclusive to Dalish applicants that go unused every year. If money is all that stands in their way, then why is this so? Or is the real culprit a lack of interest?”

“I was _lucky_ ,” Ellana snaps. “I had help. I had an opportunity that no one else would ever get and I took it. I’m not an example.”

“Is that so? Because you’re just proving my point.”

Ellana stands up so fast the table shakes, sending iced tea sloshing in their cups. The urge to reach across the table and slap him challenges the limit of her self-control. Not even the wary look on his face gives her any satisfaction.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she says and leaves.

 

Merrill finds her an hour later sitting on top of a boulder, back resting against a gnarled tree. Up this high, she can see the twinkle of the river in the setting sun.

“It’s going to get dark soon.” Merrill climbs up the side of the rock with ease. “I brought you a flashlight.”

“I’ll go back in a minute,” she says, even though the thought makes her cringe. “I made an ass of myself, didn’t I?”

“I don’t think so.” Merrill sits down next to her. “You’re very passionate about our culture, just more so than anyone expected. Plus, I think Solas antagonized you a bit.”

“Just a bit?”

“He’s just as passionate as you are. He just sees things a little differently.”

A little differently. Understatement of the freaking summer right there.

“How do you see it?” she asks. Does she have an ally with Merrill or does she fight her battles alone?

Merrill hesitates. “The issue at hand is complicated. Do I think that the Dalish should be more involved in their own culture? Of course. But they don’t understand how to do it and they don’t listen to people who try to instruct them.”

“Have you tried? I can understand not responding to humans, but it coming from a fellow Dalish would be different.”

A shadow crosses Merrill’s face. “Sometimes I think that makes it worse.”

“What do you mean?”

A long moment of silence passes. It looks as if Merrill is trying to gear herself up to say something. “I am one of the _banal'varem_ ,” she says so softly that Ellana can barely hear it over the breeze.

“ _What?_ What happened?”

_Banal’varem –_ it’s one of Ellana’s worst nightmares. To be officially exiled out of a clan means that no Dalish clan will have you – not in Antiva, not in the Dales, not in Ferelden – nothing could be more heartbreaking.

It’s the worst thing that can happen to a Dalish. Even Ellana hadn’t been officially exiled. It takes murder or rape – something horrific – to earn exile. Something that Merrill is definitely not capable of.

“I found an Eluvian. It was lying in a cave my cousin and I were exploring. Of course, I got excited. Those are so rare and this one still had most of the glass intact.”

“Holy shit, are you serious?”

An Eluvian. They’ve remained one of Arlathan’s biggest mysteries. No one knows exactly what they were used for, only that they were somehow integral to Elvhen society. A fully intact Eluvian has never been found – only fragments and pieces that give more questions than they answer.

Merrill nods. “The whole clan got really excited about it. My Keeper wanted to put together a team to extract it, but part of the frame had fused with the stalactites. There was no way to get it out in one piece without special tools and expertise that we didn’t have. She would listen to me, so . . . I contacted Kirkwall University and they sent their own field team.”

“And they exiled you? For _that?_ ”

“After the field team extracted it, they sent it to a museum to be restored and studied. Because of me, we lost our Eluvian, we lost a chance to learn about our own culture for ourselves, rather than second hand from somewhere else. My Keeper was furious, but not as much as the rest of the clan. They _hated_ me.”

“That’s bullshit,” Ellana says flatly. “You were protecting your culture. They would have fucked it up by themselves and then no one would have learned anything.”

“Now you sound like Solas.”

Ellana stops.

_. . . artifacts, paintings, and heritage sites were damaged, some irrevocably, because of the carelessness of untrained hands . . ._

“This is different,” she says, but the discomfort persists. “An Eluvian is very delicate and needed special tools, like you said. I can understand needing help. But what about ruins like the one here? I have no training. I’m just yanking vines down. But I know a lot of my clan who would love to do this with me. Hell, they would do it for free.”

Merrill nods. “I think that our people should be more involved. There just isn’t an easy answer.”

“Yeah,” Ellana sighs. “The older I get, the less I see easy answers for anything.”

“Come, _lethalin.”_ Merrill squeezes her shoulder. “I saved the leftovers for you, if you’re hungry.”

On their way back, Ellana works up the courage to speak up about her own experiences.

“I’m not exiled like you are, not officially.” she says finally. Merrill pauses and turns towards her. “My Keeper still speaks to me, but she’s the only one. Apparently, they decided I was a traitor the second I moved to Orlais. Like humans tainted me. It took me three years to get the money to come back and visit, and when I did . . .” Ellan swallows. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Merrill takes Ellana’s hand and squeezes it.

“One of these days their love for you will overcome their bitterness,” she says. “You just have to be patient.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

Merrill looks away. “You just have to be patient.”

 

Dr. Felassan has disappeared into his room by the time Ellana returns. Thank the Creators. She doesn’t know if she could look at his smug face without doing something rash. Instead she grabs her book and joins Bram on the couch while he shouts wrong answers at a trivia game show.

“I’m sorry, I’m not being too distracting, am I?” he says during the next commercial break.

Ellana shakes her head. “I could read in a hurricane.”

“What book is that? It’s not a history book, is it?” His nose scrunches.

“You don’t like history books? You’re an archeologist.”

Bram shrugs. “I would like them more if they weren’t so dry. It’s more fun discovering history and discussing it than reading about it in a book.”

“Well, this is definitely not a history book.” Ellana holds up Varric’s AR copy, and Bram gasps.

“Oh, sweet Maker, is that the next _Hard in Hightown_ book? I thought it didn’t come out for another three months!”

“This is a review copy,” says Ellana. “Varric gave it to me to read this summer. You like his books?”

“I _love_ _Hard in Hightown_ ,” says Bram fervently. “I’ve been waiting forever for that book.”

He eyes it a bit like a dog eyes a steak. Ellana holds it out. “You want to borrow it?”

“Is that legal?”

“Well you can’t spout off spoilers to everyone you meet, but what Varric’s publisher doesn’t know won’t hurt them, and he’s not going to care.”

“You finish it first,” he says, though it looks like it cost him to be so generous.

Ellana smiles. “I’m a fast reader, don’t worry.”

Bram does prove a bit more distracting than Ellana anticipated after that, if only because every time she laughed or gasped or made any facial expression at all, he would demand to know what happened to cause it and then immediately follow that up with “No no don’t tell me! I don’t want any spoilers!”

Ellana stays up half the night to finish the book. Everyone else drifts to bed, save for Cole, who knits on the floor in front of the lamp.

“You know how to knit?” she asks, rather surprised.

“I don’t think about bad things when I knit,” he explains. “And it lets me create things that help people.”

His fingers fly with the needles, and Ellana watches for a moment, entranced. “What are you making?”

“A sweater.”

“It’s awfully tiny for a sweater.”

“It’s for birds. When they’re hurt from oil spills. They need the sweaters to keep them warm after they’ve been washed.”

Cole answers her questions, but she can feel the hint of impatience in them, and she leaves him alone after that. They sit in companionable silence until Ellana finishes the book, her eyes barely open.

 

By the time she wakes up the next morning, it’s almost eleven o’clock and all that’s left of breakfast is cold boiled eggs and a couple of sad pancakes.

“Well look who’s joined the living,” says Bram. He’s already halfway through Varric’s book, which she left on the coffee table with a note for him.

Merrill darts over to her anxiously. “Are you feeling sick?”

“I stayed up too late reading,” says Ellana, nodding to the book in Bram’s hand.

She can feel Dr. Felassan’s eyes on her from the dining room table, but she studiously ignores him.

“A sacrifice that will not go unappreciated,” says Bram, holding up the book in toast to her. “There’s still some coffee left, if Solas hasn’t stolen it all.”

“A baseless fear,” adds Dr. Felassan. “Please, Ellana, help yourself.”

She gives him a bit of a side eye on her way to the coffee maker. Is he one of those types that becomes politer the more he hates someone? He definitely looks it, sitting there with his cardigan and his half-moon glasses perched on his nose, like the ultimate caricature of a stuffy professor. He must be a nightmare to have for class.

 

Nothing looks more dark, secretive, and begging for exploration than the woods on a cloudy day. Judging from the scene out the window, a storm will definitely hit tonight. Ellana doesn’t care. She laces up her hiking boots and grabs her compass and a bottle of water. Cole joins her, a silent shadow in his wide brimmed gardener’s hat.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

Ellana shrugs. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

They head not north or east or south but up, climbing over low hanging boulders, using trees to pull them over stubborn hills. Ellana’s legs are killing her – Creators it’s been so long since she’s really hiked like this, in the wild with a trail – but Cole voices no complaints. In fact, he’s so quiet Ellana sometimes forgets he’s even there.

At the top of the hill is an outcropping of rock. Ellana edges out until she’s sitting, legs dangling. Far below a sea of green stretches out, mist rolling down the other hills. It’s so beautiful that Ellana’s breath catches.

Creators she has missed the Dales. How could any other place in Thedas possibly compare?

“I don’t think I’ve been this high before,” says Cole. He stands a little ways back from the edge.

“It’s only a few hundred feet,” says Ellana. “I love climbing up high – you can see so much. Come look.”

Cautiously, Cole sits and scoots up close to the edge beside Ellana. She points to the grey specks in the distance.

“That’s town way over there.” Her finger swings towards a wooden structure peeking out of the trees on another hill. “That’s one of the ranger buildings, pretty sure.”

Cole looks down at her legs swinging.  “I don’t think I like this.”

Ellana laughs at the slight hitch in his voice. “Okay. We’ll leave in a minute.”

Cole’s relief is obvious as he leads them down the hill, outpacing even Ellana and her long strides. He slows only when the ground evens out beneath them.

A soft breeze stirs, bringing that heavy, heady scent of rain and greenery one only smells deep in the woods. Ellana stops and breathes it in.

“You missed this place,” Cole says softly. “Very much.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You breathe like you are trying to drink the trees.”

It’s taken a few days, but Ellana is starting to get the hang of Cole’s weird . . . Cole-isms. “These kinds of trees don’t grow in Skyhold. It smells entirely different up there and I miss it.” Ellana pauses. “I miss it more than I thought I did.”

“I like trees. Trees don’t hurt people.”

Ellana gives him a sideways glance. Maybe she’s not entirely used to Cole-isms.

He gives her a little smile, barely more than a quirk of his lips. “If you listen, you can hear it all reaching for the sun.”

Which sounds a little crazy, but Ellana understands it. The woods had a certain sound to it, beneath the birds and the wind and the streams. The barest whisper of a groan.

“My _babae_ use to tell me when I was a kid that if you listened close enough, you could hear the trees growing, and that my bones made the same sound, only I couldn’t hear it.”

“That makes perfect sense to me.”

 

Monday they drag themselves back to the site. The clouds persist, giving them all a break from the sun. Harding appears around lunch, an apparition carrying an ax strapped to a picnic basket.

“I don’t know about you, but I want to see more butts,” she tells Ellana.

Dr. Felassan raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, ancient and sacred art,” she amends, giving Ellana a sideways smile.

“Take care not to damage the rock,” Dr. Felassan warns.

“No worries here, I’ve had lots of practice separating vines from endangered trees. This shouldn’t be that much different.”

Ellana is happy to have her partner in crime back. Together they reveal the tall column of the elf’s figure, up well sculpted back muscles and thick arms all the way up to his bald head.

“It looks like Dr. Felassan on steroids,” Ellana whispers and Harding giggles – but not without looking behind her shoulder afterwards.

They’ve abandoned all pretense of following the efficient, careful pattern that Cole and Ellana started in favor of uncovering their new friend. He sticks out, a bald spot in the tangled mess.

“Behold!” Ellana says, flinging her arms so dramatically that she nearly falls off the ladder and has to windmill a second to recapture her grip.

Everyone gets up to inspect the painting, Dr. Felassan trading places with her on the ladder.

“The colors are remarkably intact,” says Dr. Felassan, peering closely. “The blending is remarkable.”

“Sad that he’s naked, though,” Bram says. “I was hoping to get an idea of the kind of buckles to look for.”

“Did they even wear armor?” Harding asks. “Because I’m having my doubts.”

“Yes,” says Dr. Felassan. “Though this coloring could suggest camouflage.”

“Now _that_ would be interesting,” says Bram, squinting at the painting with new interest.

“Why is the painting here, though,” Harding asks. “Is this some kind of art gallery?”

“It’s difficult to say without knowing what the purpose of these ruins are,” says Dr. Felassan. “Though my suspicions lie with this being a fort of some kind for the Emerald Knights. Of course, we can’t confirm anything until we discover more artifacts. Good work, you two.”

 

They take a small break for lunch, but Ellana and Harding wolf down their sandwiches as soon as they can and get back to work. Something crackles through Ellana’s blood, a desperate curiosity. Before today it all been stone and walls and dirt – it didn’t look much different than the rest of the Emerald Graves to be honest.

But seeing that painting – in all it’s ridiculous, naked glory – makes this all a real place, built by real hands of real people. What else sits, hiding, waiting for Ellana to uncover it?

After an hour, Ellana and Harding uncover a sideways triangle that slowly turns into the point of a foot.

“Look like it’s another pin-up model,” says Ellana, while Harding snorts.

By the end of the day they’ve uncovered half of a squatting elven man with very firm thighs. Ellana hacks and clips and pulls at the vines until someone gently and determinedly pulls the hedge trimmers from her filth encrusted hands.

“It’s time to head back,” says Dr. Felassan.

She can smell him: sweat and deodorant and dirt.

Ellana spins around, driven by the kind of instinct that never lets you sleep with your back to the door. The wall presses against her back but Dr. Felassan does not move to give her room. He stands so close she can count his freckles.

“Sorry,” she says. “I guess I got carried away.”

“You’ve discovered our first significant find,” he says, and a part of her perks up at the pride in his tone. “I would be just as excited. But if you push yourself too much today, you will suffer for it tomorrow and the day after.”

Indeed, as Ellana helps them pack up for the day, her arms quiver like a bow string. And when they all start the journey back to their cabin, the exhaustion settles like an anchor around her neck.

“Please tell me if this is an offense,” says Harding with a hesitant glance at Ellana, “but I love your vallaslin. The design is so beautiful. Which god does it honor?”

Creators, if that’s what Harding worried was an offensive question, she had clearly never set foot in Orlais. “Thank you. I don’t find it offensive. My vallaslin honors the goddess –”

“Ghilan’nain,” supplies Dr. Felassan. “The mother of the Halla.”

“Right.” Ellana shoots him a strange look.

“Ghilan’nain.” Harding tastes the word, trying to get the pronunciation down. “How does a Dalish get their vallaslin?”

“It’s part of a ceremony,” Ellana explains. “Like a coming of age thing. Once a Dalish reaches sixteen, they can ask for a vallaslin ceremony.”

“You have to ask for one?” Bram slows his stride to get beside Ellana.

“It represents maturity so you have to be able to sit still and have the keeper tattoo your face without flinching or crying. So, you should only ask for it if you think you’re ready.”

Harding winces. “What happens if someone cries?”

“They stop the ceremony,” says Dr. Felassan before Ellana can reply. “And then the village mocks you for your unfinished vallaslin until you finish it.”

“It’s not as harsh as that,” says Ellana, hating the way Harding’s face twists up in subtle disapproval. It’s a look she’s seen too many times, usually accompanied by some variation of Dalish savage. “People who get their ceremony too early usually do it because they’re cocky. They want to hurry up and be the first of their friends to get theirs. They think they’re so grown up when really they just wanted to look cool. It’s not really mocking so much as pointing out how immature they really are.”

“Oh,” says Harding, her face clearing. “What about your design? Did you get to pick yours out?”

“The clan kind of picks it out. Or, at least that’s how it’s done down south. Your vallaslin is supposed to represent a part of yourself that connects to a god. So, like, someone who is really good at making things should have the vallaslin for June, god of crafts. It can also be a personality thing, like someone with Sylaise vallaslin could be warm and comforting. So, the Keeper mostly decides because they have seen you grow up and they know the kind of person you are and would turn into.”

“So why are you Ghili – Ghilan’nain?” Bram asks. “Or is that too personal of a question?”

“It depends on the Dalish. I don’t mind. It’s kind of an inside joke. Ghilan’nain’s other name is the Mother of Monsters and well . . . I was kind of an asshole when I was a kid. A major asshole, actually.”

Merrill scoffs from up ahead. “I can hardly believe that.”

Dr. Felassan snorts softly enough that only Ellana catches it.

“Oh, believe it,” says Ellana. “My parents died when I was seven, and I was kind of passed around the clan for a while before my Keeper took me in. And the way I handled it was to be an angry, hateful little jackass who would pick a fight with anyone.”

She could feel the stares of everyone on her, especially Dr. Felassan.

Harding gives her a face of sorrow. “Oh, my Maker, Ellana, I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

Ellana shrugs, uncomfortable with her pity. “I mean, it was a car wreck. It’s not like it was anybody’s fault. I turned out alright thanks to Istie. She still calls me _da’ghilan_ , which means—”

“Little monster.” A bit of a smirk plays around Dr. Felassan’s mouth. It should not be attractive. (It is.)

She spent the rest of the walk regaling her team with horror stories from her youth: like the time she burnt down Varnehn’s barn (accident) or broke Nerien’s arm (not an accident) or told her primary teacher to go suck Fen’harel’s balls (Dr. Felassan’s ears went a little red at that one).

In fact, his attention does not waver the entire time, as if she’s describing dinner with Empress Celene.

“What made you stop?” Cole asks. He’s grown more and more intrigued as her stories went on.

Ellana shrugs. “I guess I got tired of being angry. It’s exhausting, actually, to keep it up. I had to let it go some time.”

(Is her clan’s anger any more sustainable? Will it last as long as hers did, years and years and years?)

Her stories inspire the others, and soon most of them are sharing their own childhood misadventures. Merrill once cut her finger on a thorn and pretended to do blood magic to curse a boy who had been teasing her too much. Bram had superglued all his cousins’ shoes together on a dare. Harding shot a man trying to rob the convivence store on her way to archery practice.

Only Dr. Felassan and Cole remain quiet. Ellana wants to push, wants to tease, but Cole’s strangeness might not have stemmed from a normal or healthy childhood. As for Dr. Felassan . . . his worst childhood crime is probably putting that stick up his ass, since it still seems stuck there.

 

“Can you go find Solas?” Merrill looks up from chopping the tomatoes. “He’s somewhere by the river bank. Cole’s napping and I don’t want to disturb him, but dinner is almost ready.”

Soon after they all came home and Harding said her goodbyes, Dr. Felassan had taken a leather-bound journal and walked back out. He’s acted strange this whole evening, going from the staring and rapt attention he’d given her to the abrupt avoidance of all his co-workers (he had barely said goodbye to Harding before he left).

She finds him sitting beneath a thick oak tree by the river bank, sketching something lightly in his journal. The reflection of the evening sun on the water casts a strange glow around him and dances in the tree canopy. It makes his skin look luminous, like one of the Creators right out of a story book.

“Dr. Felassan?” She steps closer to him, a twig snapping underneath her feet.

The pencil jerks in his hand as he looks up at her.

“Sorry. Merrill wants you to know that dinner is almost ready.”

Almost involuntarily, her gaze drops down to his sketchbook, which is then closed quietly and swiftly.

“Ah. Thank you. I tend to lose track of time when I draw.” He stands up with the kind of smooth grace that Ellana could never achieve. “Shall we?”

Barely a minute of quiet passes before he speaks.

“Did you know there are ways to remove vallaslin?”

Ellana nearly trips. “What? What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one. Do you or do you not?”

“I do. So what?”

“Do you know the history of vallaslin?”

Of course, she knew – she read about it in his damn book. “Why” she asks slowly, hackles rising.

“They were once slave markings,” he says as if he didn’t hear her. “They were never a coming of age ceremony and they never honored your gods.”

Your gods. Strange wording from the man who wrote “our creators” in his book.

“I know. I’ve . . . read your book.” Gods, it’s a little embarrassing to admit that now.

Something in his eyes light up. “Oh really? You’ve never mentioned this before.”

“I mean, I skimmed most of it. It’s a big book,” she lies, shrugging her shoulder. “But I read about your thoughts on vallaslin.”

“They’re aren’t just thoughts – they’ve been backed up with evidence.”

“Evidence? Did an ancient elf walk up to you and explain it?”

He gives her a look that clearly belies how childish he thinks of her reply and does not dignify her with his own.

“Isn’t archeology just a subjective interpretation of fragments that are missing the full context?”

“I’m not making conjectures to suit my own opinions,” he protests. “I make conjectures that fit the facts of my discoveries. And there are many written accounts that more than prove that hypothesis, which you would have known if you did more than _skim_ my book.”

Creators, he is touchy about his work. “Why are you even asking me about vallaslin?”

“I just wanted to express . . . surprise that you still have yours.”

Ellana stops. “What the _hell?”_

He stops with her, confused. “It’s just a curiosity. You’re educated, you live beyond your clan, you’re aware of its true history – not to mention the painful memories associated with it. If I were you, I would have rid myself of it a long time ago. I just wonder why you haven’t.”

Wordless rage zips through her like the fuse on a stick of dynamite. Unable to begin to articulate everything wrong with that statement, she shakes her head and walks determinedly forward.

“I’ve offended you again.” Dr. Felassan’s long strides quickly catch up to hers. “I don’t understand how.”

A laugh burst from her like acid. “Of course, you don’t. You’re not _Dalish_.”

He blinks at her owlishly. “I don’t understand how that’s relevant. We’re elvhen. We share a history – one in which I’m more educated in. Why do our differences in modern heritage matter?”

“Because things _change_! So vallaslin used to be slave markings, so _what_? That was a thousand years ago. The culture has changed. The old meaning doesn’t matter in the face of its significance today. If you were Dalish you would understand that.”

It takes a herculean effort not to totally lose her shit on him, screaming and cussing and getting her shipped right the fuck back to Skyhold. Ellana would be proud of herself if she wasn’t shaking in suppressed rage.

He stares at her for a moment, and she can’t tell if he’s angry with her or not. Then he lowers his head for a moment. “I suppose it was too personal of a question. I overstepped my boundaries. I apologize.”

“Whatever,” she mutters and stalks off ahead of him before she totally loses all sense of self control and commits a homicide.

She avoids him like the plague for the next few days. Not even just because she’s still angry with him. But it seems like he uses any time they are alone together as an opportunity to start a fight. Just where the hell did Fen’Harel even find this guy?

Days are spent clearing the wall on either side of the pin up models (as Ellana affectionately refers to them) because she promised Harding she wouldn’t uncover the newest painting without her. Ellana entertains herself by rifling through her Elvhen for ridiculous nicknames for the paintings.

During lunch breaks, Merrill photographs the first one from every angle and Dr. Felassan sketches it in his notebook. Bram also takes closer looks at it on the ladder to see if Dr. Felassan’s camouflage theory has any merit.

In the evenings she has Cole teach her how to crochet out of sheer boredom. _Hard in Hightown_ is the only book she brought with her and it’s been passed on from Bram to Harding like they’re in a freaking book club.

Through it all she and Dr. Felassan barely exchange five words. 

It’s on such an evening a couple of days after their fight, when she’s unraveling half an hour’s worth of work after Cole noticed she had dropped a stitch four rows back, that Dr. Felassan approaches her.

“Ellana.”

She looks up, bracing herself, ready for a storm. Strange – Dr. Fellasan has a similar look in his eyes, like Ellana’s a horse that’s about to get violent. Of course, he wouldn’t have anything to worry about if he would just keep his big fucking mouth shut.

But mixed in with the apprehension is a strange anticipation. Nobody tells you this, but most of the time archeology is _boring_. Ellana clears square foot after square foot with almost nothing to show for it, and these last couple of days waiting for Harding to come back so she can discover more of the painting has been agony.

His shadow looms almost hesitantly across the couch. A small stack of books lay in his hands.

“I noticed you’ve run out of reading material. If you would like, you can borrow some of my books.” He lips quirk in a rueful smile. “They’re not as entertaining as Varric’s, but if you would like more history . . .”

Ellana sits up warily and takes the stack of books from his hands. They aren’t all books he’s written–surprisingly, because he’s got that level of self-satisfied arrogance. What’s more surprising is the variety of the stack: _Dwarven Folktales both Famous and Forgotten; Never Saw it Coming – historical accounts of Antiva’s most famous assassinations; Four Paws and a Medal of Honor – the life and times of Ferelden’s most beloved Mabari warriors._

“All of these look really interesting,” she says, reading the short descriptions on the backs.

“You may borrow them all, then. I particularly recommend the Dwarven folk tales – they have lovely illustrations.”

Gratitude sits awkwardly with her, but she gives Dr. Felassan her best smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He bows his head in return. There’s something strange in his eyes – fondness, affection. Something warm that softens the planes of his face and makes him look almost approachable. But there’s no reason why such a look would be directed at her. It’s the kind of look Ellana catches on Varric’s face after he’s teased Cassandra and she’s stalked off in a huff – or on Krem after Iron Bull has made yet another pun joke on his name.

“Perhaps when you’re finished, we could discuss what you’ve read?”

Immediately Ellana’s hackles rise – a discussion with Dr. Felassan sounds like code for him to shove his opinions down her throat and expect her to agree with him. But the hope in his voice – hesitant and fragile –  makes her reconsider. A real discussion – an equal exchange of ideas – Ellana loves nothing better.

“Sure.”

 

Ellana stays up later than she should have reading the folktales. Full of exploration, creation, adventure: they’re so different from the elven kind she grew up with. She enjoyed them so much, in fact, that she kind of looks forward to discussing them with Dr. Felassan the next morning.

“Which one is your favorite so far?” he asks as they head out for the day.

Ellana thinks a moment. “ _The Light Bringer_.”

His eyebrows raise up. “That’s an interesting choice. It’s not a very happy tale.”

“That’s what I like about it. In Elvhen stories, light protects us, it represents joy and warmth and goodness. But to the dwarves, the light brings despair and ruin. The whole story is creepy as hell and I didn’t expect that.”

“Yes, it’s fascinating how an underground society would internalize the meaning of light. Of course, they have to use light to see by, but they don’t categorize that as light – just fire. Light for them represents the sun, which represents the outside –”

“And that represents the unknown,” Ellana adds. “A break in tradition. It’s why any dwarf that wanders to the surface comes back cursed and evil. The light bringer had to be purified in darkness. It’s the total inverse of Elvhen ideology.”

Dr. Felassan lights up in the exact way that Dorian does when Ellana understands a difficult concept. No matter how much field work he does, Dr. Felassan is definitely the teacher type.

“Exactly. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never read anything like it. My library was . . . a little lacking in books like these.”

“The Dalish have little time for things outside their own traditions,” says Dr. Felassan, nodding. “A bit like the Dwarves, I suppose.”

Ellana swallows. As far as criticisms go, this one barely qualifies. It’s true. Her people have an obsession with their own traditions that she always found stifling.

“Which one’s your favorite?”

She changes the subject anyway.

 

“This one is even more glorious than the last one,” says Harding.

After three hours of backbreaking work, Harding and Ellana finally gaze upon the form of the second elf painting. The artists probably meant this creation to stand as the pinnacle of male physiology. Instead, it looks even more erotic than the first painting, squatting quite suggestively and looking coyly over his shoulder. Not even the shield and sword held aloft could counteract the ridiculous emphasis on this elf’s clenched ass cheeks.

“I agree,” says Ellana. “There is no way these aren’t pin up models. I mean, Antiva had a heavily homosexual army back in the third age.”

“These are not pin up models,” says Dr. Felassan, sounding a bit exasperated.

“Well, to be fair, we can’t definitively say they aren’t,” pipes up Bram. “Move a bit to your right, you’re cutting off part of the shield.”

As Merrill and Bram take more photographs and Cole wanders off to nap somewhere, Ellana tells Harding of the nicknames she’d been knocking around in her head.

“So, I want to name the tall one _Ina'lan'ehn'y'mesilde_ which basically translates as ‘someone really hot who is horrible at sex.’”

Harding’s lips silently try to map out the syllables in the Elvhen name and ends up looking like a gasping fish. Ellana laughs.

“I’m sorry,” says Harding, laughing with her. “It’s a wonderful word. I just have no hope of saying it right.”

“That’s okay, it’s a bit of a mouthful anyway.”

“I know a word close to it, though.” Harding’s lips quirk in a devious smirk. “Fred.”

“Fred?”

“Yeah. My ex-boyfriend.”

Ellana throws her head back and laughs.

They end up naming the second one Sidela, the elvhen word for “naughty”. Sidela and Fred. It sounds like a sitcom.

 

Ellana works her way through the rest of the folktales and moves on to the Antivan Crow murders. Honestly, knowing that Dr. Felassan even has this book changes her opinion of him somewhat. It’s too grim and exciting to belong to someone so stuffy. Not to mention it’s written in a much more informal style than typical historical books. Ellana enjoys it immensely. She also finds herself enjoying the gleam in Dr. Felassan’s eye when she talks about it.

“I can’t believe that the murder of Queen Madrigal is still unsolved,” she says.

“It remains one of Antiva’s greatest mysteries. Indeed, though the Crows took credit for it, there’s little evidence to suggest they had anything to do with it.”

“I wonder if the captain had anything to do with it. I mean, he questioned the Crows and they would reveal anything, but that could just be something he made up to cover his tracks.”

“You’re also forgetting the letter from the Executors.”

“There’s no evidence they even exist. How easy would it have been to forge something like that for the captain to conveniently find?”

Dr. Felassan chuckles. “True. You might be onto something. Maybe you should contact the Antivan royal Embassy.”

Ellana rolls her eyes. “Maybe I’ll just ask my Crow friend for insider knowledge instead.”

“You . . . have a friend who’s an Antivan Crow?”

“Well, he’s a former Crow.” Even though they’re out in the middle of nowhere, she still has the urge to look around for anyone who could report Zev. “He’s in witness protection right now. But I doubt he would know anything – he left at a young age and was raised in foster care.”

“And he’s at Skyhold? That’s an impressive leap.”

Ellana shrugs. “He’s a genius at computers and math. I’ve gotten a lot of tutoring from him, actually.”

They talk all the way to the ruins without pause, which shocks the hell out of her, honestly. Who knew that Dr. Felassan could be fun to talk to? She actually looked forward to lunch to continue their conversation, though she could blame that on the monotony of pulling down all these gods-damn vines.

But if she did, she’d be lying.

 

Saturday morning Ellana wakes up to suspicious quiet. No soft Merrill snores. No sounds of Cole talking softly to his nug friends. No coffee maker percolating. When Ellana looks down at the bottom bunk, it’s empty, the blankets smooth and corners tucked in.

The bright sunshine streaming through the kitchen window nearly blinds Ellana as she stumbles out of her room towards the coffee pot.

“Good morning.”

Ellana jumps and turns to Dr. Felassan, sitting at the dining table with a literary journal.

“Oh no,” she says. “If you’re already up, I must have slept in way too late.”

“It’s a little past eleven.” He sets down his journal. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah. I think I’ve been staying up too late reading and it’s all caught up with me.”

Ellana pours herself a cup of the remaining coffee. At this hour of the morning, Bram should be singing as he makes breakfast, Cole should be napping on the couch as cartoons play on the television, Merrill should be dusting and humming like some kind of lost princess in a fairytale.

Instead it’s dead quiet with not a soul around except for Dr. Felassan.

“Where is everybody?” Ellana asks.

Dr. Felassan nods to the fridge, where there’s a note penned in Merrill’s flowy script attached with a magnet. “They went to run errands in town.”

“Oh.”

So that meant possible hours left alone with just Dr. Felassan for company. The idea left her somewhat uneasy, though she scolds herself for it. As if she should be afraid of anyone, much less some stuffy professor with a stick up his ass that only relaxes for books.

“There are some boiled eggs leftover on the counter and some cut up strawberries in the fridge, if you would like them. I have already eaten.”

Ellana is a little disappointed she couldn’t go into town – she wanted to get some postcards for Josephine and Krem. But she still has roughly half the book about Ferelden dog warriors to finish, so Ellana makes herself comfortable on the porch and dives back in.

A little while later Dr. Felassan steps out onto the porch with his laptop and takes up residence at the patio table.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” he asks.

“Nope.” Ellana doesn’t turn her gaze from the page.

They sit in that strangely companionable silence, too comfortable with each other’s presence than any two near strangers have to a right to, until they break for a late lunch. At nearly three in the afternoon, there is still no sign of their friends.

“How are you enjoying your book,” he asks, mixing in vinaigrette dressing in his salad while Ellana attacks a turkey sandwich.

“It’s a little startling to go from grisly Antivan murders to heartwarming stories about dogs, but I like it. Was this book written for children?”

Dr. Felassan nods. “Yes, but I often find children’s literature enjoyable after so many dry history books.”

“Don’t you write dry history books?” The joke pops out of her mouth before she can reconsider it.

He raises an eyebrow. “I write history books – but if you did anything more than skim it, you would know they aren’t dry.”

Ellana’s lip quirks up, a secret smile for herself. “Sure. Maybe one of these days I’ll get around to actually reading it.”

His eyes gleam knowingly, as if he’s in on this joke somehow, and hides how amusing he finds it. Her smile widens in return. It’s a rare moment of mutual understanding, of shared amusement.

Dr. Felassan looks away first, silent for a moment, as if bracing himself.

“Ellana, I have to admit . . . I am rather impressed by you,” he confesses.

Something strange swoops in her gut. “Why? I haven’t done anything.”

“On the contrary, you’ve accomplished much. It takes a lot of bravery to leave the comfort of your home for a strange place full of strange people, and you did so completely on your own.”

“Lots of people leave home, Dr. Felassan,” she points out. “It’s not that special.”

“It is when you’re Dalish. The world is more hostile, your upbringing more isolated, yourself more ignorant of the world and its customs as a result. It’s a lot to overcome, and that’s not touching the fact that you managed to get into one of Orlais’ most prestigious universities with such a limited background education.”

Every word of his feels like acid poured into the pit of her stomach. The fact that he’s right makes it even worse. But if her discomfort shows, he doesn’t notice. Dr. Felassan carries on, oblivious.

“It’s obvious from our discussions that you’re intelligent, that you have a hunger for knowledge, for multiple perspectives, and it’s admirable how well you’ve cultivated that hunger despite coming from a culture that shuns knowledge and awareness of the world. It’s rare to see a Dalish want to leave tradition behind in the manner you have, much less to do so for the pursuit of knowledge and enrichment of oneself. Truly, you have much to be proud of.”

Anger is a surprisingly varied emotion. It comes in all kinds of different forms and intensities, and Ellana experienced them all, intimately, over the years. People always think that it’s the explosive anger that’s the most dangerous, the volcano kind that erupts without warning and rains damage before dying out.

They’re wrong. The worst kind of anger is the one that Ellana feels crackling under her skin, not the spontaneous eruption of a volcano. It’s the steady, doomed buildup of a storm, a slow, unstoppable gathering of power. The kind of anger that makes the pressure drop in the air. A hurricane anger that build and builds until it unleashes everything at once.

She feels very calm right now, though her heart thuds heavily in her chest.

“Yeah, I guess I never thought about it like that before.” Her voice is slow. Measured. Conversational even. “But when you put it like that, it really is amazing how an ignorant, backwoods, naïve Dalish savage could handle setting foot outside their front door. But getting into college? That really is a godsdamn miracle.”

It’s almost comical how quickly Dr. Felassan’s face changes from condescension to horror – the moment he realizes that he fucked up.

“Ellana, that’s not –”

“You’re right, I did work hard. Most Dalish can’t even read and we use our toes to help count out our change. I hadn’t been in our one room school house since I was nine years old. Maybe the admissions people just felt sorry for me.” Ellana laughs and it sounds deranged. “It must have really shocked the hell out of you that I could even have an intelligent conversation that didn’t revolve around Halla milk and shooting arrows from the window of my truck.”

He looks angry now, his brows furrowed and eyes flashing. “You’re deliberately misunderstanding me,” he snaps, and that is all it takes to unleash the storm.

“How fucking stupid do you think that I am?” She thunders, jerking to her feet fast enough to shake the table “You’ve done _nothing_ but insult me, my people, and my culture since I got here and you think you can play this off like I’m too oblivious to get what you’re implying? I am _done_ playing this game. I’m _done_ keeping my mouth shut while you disrespect my degree, my way of life, my intelligence. I don’t see you pulling this shit with Merrill, so what is your fucking deal with me? Huh?”

He stares at her, his silence condemning this outburst of hers as nothing more than a tantrum.

She slams her hands down on the table. “Answer me!”

When he speaks, his voice comes out measured and controlled. “I made the simple mistake of thinking that you could look upon your own culture with objectivity, a balanced perspective, instead of blindly following the ideals of your Keeper without question.”

“Bullshit! You just wanted someone to validate your own fucking prejudice of my people, and you thought, without even knowing me, that I would be that person. Well you’ve got the whole rest of the fucking world to do that with you. I’m not joining them.”

“Why do you still defend a people that has abandoned and rejected you?” he shoots back. “Why can’t you see how that’s a product of the kind of blind loyalty that clouds your people’s judgement?”

Ellana blinks at him, horrified. “How the fuck do you know about that?”

Did Merrill blab to him? Did he somehow overhear their conversation before they got to the cabin? How long has he been sitting on this information, ready to pull it out like an ace in a game of Diamondback?

Dr. Felassan’s face, flushed in anger, suddenly goes white. “Because that’s generally what happens to any Dalish who defies the status quo. Are you telling me it’s not true for you?”

“It’s none of your _fucking_ business if it’s true or not.”

“That’s all but a confirmation,” he snaps.

“So what! So what if they did? So what if my education wasn’t the best, so what if my people are obsessed with their own traditions, so what if they don’t care about the rest of the world? So the fuck what? You still don’t get to criticize it! You don’t get to say _anything_ because you’re not. _Fucking_. _Dalish._ ” By now she is screaming so loud that her voice goes hoarse. “You have no right to look down on any culture and criticize it from your place of academic privilege. You don’t know what it’s like to be hated, to be poor, to be driven out of your own homelands, to be murdered for not assimilating. So just do everyone a favor and just shut the fuck _up.”_

Dizzy and hoarse and so full of anger she feels like she could explode, Ellana knows she has utterly lost control of herself. She probably looks and sounds like a complete fucking lunatic, but she’s too far gone to care. In fact, if Dr. Felassan opens his smug fucking mouth for any reason other than to grovel, Ellana will probably deck him right here and now.

Shaking and feeling like a bomb that might go off at any moment, Ellana turns and walks away, right off the deck and into the woods, before she does anything more stupid.

The whole time Dr. Felassan watches her walk away and says nothing.

 

Ellana climbs up and over boulders and trees and hills until her arms shake with the effort to support herself. Then she collapses against the cliff face, angry tears streaming down her cheeks. Gods, she isn’t any different now than she was as a stupid, psychotic child. And just like that stupid, psychotic child, she’s too pissed to calm down.

For _years_ she admired this man, and the way he lovingly detailed all aspects of a culture the rest of the world is content to forget. He lavished the kind of attention and praise on Ancient Elvhen that is usually reserved for the Chantry, and Ellana loved that. She felt noticed and valued by it.

She should have realized based on his subject matter that Dalish elves weren’t included in that. They’re never included. Just as much as the Dalish are content to live apart, Thedas is content to ignore them and anything they’ve ever contributed. Dr. Felassan probably thinks the Dalish just as savage as the rest of Thedas believes.

He was never on her side.

The light grows thicker and darker as evening sets in and Ellana does not move. What’s the point? She just essentially detonated a bomb back there – there can be nothing left to salvage. She will head back to the cabin, pack her bags, and be driven straight to the airport. Her stomach lurches at just the thought.

Typical. Ellana didn’t want to come here and now she doesn’t want to leave.

Just when she’s contemplating spending the night here, Cole finds her.

“How?” Ellana asks when his head peaks up over the rocks. “How the hell did you find me?”

“You left tracks.” He hops up and scoots beside her. “You were very angry.”

“Oh Creators,” Ellana groans, thinking of how Dr. Felassan could have spun their fight. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How angry is everyone?”

He blinks owlishly at her. “Why would everyone be angry? This is between you and Solas.”

“So he didn’t . . . tell anyone what happened?”

“He told me because he can’t hide from me. But Bram and Merrill don’t know.”

Huh.

“Merrill wants you to come back for dinner. She’s worried you’ve fallen off a cliff or been eaten by a bear.”

“Alright.” Ellana sighs before gathering the willpower to stand up. “I’m coming.”

None of the forest looks familiar to her – she was too angry to notice what direction she barreled towards – but Cole leads through the trees as if this were his home. She keeps an eye out for the so-called tracks that led him to her and spots the occasional broken twig or half a footprint. He must have eyes like a hawk to track her through all this wilderness. Mihris was like that – sharp eyes that missed nothing. Cole reminds her of him in his quiet observance of people.

“How do you know Dr. Felassan,” she asks him after a while.

“He’s my guardian.”

Her eyebrows rise. “He adopted you?”

“Not officially, I’m too old. He found me one day and took me in. Now I help him.”

“Just like that?”

Cole hesitates, his face twisting into discomfort. “It’s more complicated. I just . . . don’t like to remember it.”

Ellana immediately feels ashamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

“I just wanted to see how well you might know him. If you understand him any. Because I don’t. At all.”

The cicadas buzz in the evening light as Cole considers his answer. He takes so long that Ellana thinks perhaps he would just rather drop this whole thing.

“Solas is . . . Solas is like the ruins,” he says finally.

Ellana snorts. “Old and outdated?”

He shakes his head, taking her answer seriously. “You think you know the shape of him but there is so much hidden to be uncovered. So many secrets waiting for excavation. He hides in himself. But he is old, yes, in his soul.”

Well. That’s what you get for expecting a straight answer out of Cole. He could have been an oracle in another life, a speaker for the gods who talks exclusively in riddles and inferences. Ellana takes the hint and drops the subject. 

It’s nearly dark by the time they show back up at the cabin. Ellana hadn’t realized how far she’d walked. Leftover pasta has been sorted into two Tupperware containers and left for Ellana and Cole. There is no sign of Dr. Felassan.

“Oh, thank the Creators,” Merrill says from the dining room table. “We’ve been back for over four hours! I was getting worried!”

“Sorry,” says Ellana. “I went out hiking and I just lost track of time.”

“You should be more careful,” Bram chides. “There are real bears out there, and I hear they have a particular taste for Dalish elf.”

Ellana rolls her eyes but smiles. “Thanks. I’ll take care of what’s left of the dishes.”

 

For the next few days she and Dr. Felassan play an interesting game. It’s a competition to see who can be the politest. At first it shocks her, when he pours her a to-go cup of coffee or offers her a water bottle during lunch. But then she quickly realizes that every considerate thing he does for her is a giant “fuck you.” It’s the ultimate passive aggressive power move. The more he responds to her crass display of anger and foul language, the worse off she looks and the guiltier it’s supposed to make her feel.

Well, head games don’t work on Ellana, so she responds in kind. Now, four days in, it’s almost a race to see who can prepare breakfast or hand out water or help with the cooler first.

Through it all, Dr. Felassan keeps his expressions to her a blank, inscrutable wall. He’s like a butler from a movie: quiet, passionless, formal. It drives her crazy; she has never hated him more.

So when he grabs her wrist one evening after everyone else has filed inside the cabin to fight for the shower, she has to bite down the reflex to deck him in the face.

“Ellana – a moment first?” he asks.

His polite mask cracks and Ellana glimpses something dark behind it. She pulls her hand out of his loose grasp, the callouses of his fingers dragging against her skin.

“What?” She tries to sound neutral, polite even, but her heart pounds in her throat. Every time she’s alone with him, some horrible fight happens. She’s sick of it.

“I must apologize for my behavior, Ellana,” he begins. “I have been cruel to you – not intentionally, but intentions matter little when the end result is pain. The entire time you’ve stayed with us, I have been abominable. I’ve been . . . well, I’ve been a complete and utter ass.”

It’s the cuss word that makes it real. Honestly at this point, Ellana wouldn’t put it past Dr. Felassan to use some beautiful, elegant apology as a way to one up her and inspire an apology of her own. But she can’t imagine him ever using something as unrefined as “ass” if he were playing the game.

She almost wishes it were part of the game because she doesn’t know what to say right now. But Dr. Felassan continues, as if afraid of allowing her a reply.

“I would understand if you do not accept my apology and you are under no pressure to do so. However, if you do, meet me out here at three tomorrow morning. I would like to show you something.”

Ellana blinks. “I’m sorry, did you say three in the _morning_? Like, the middle of the night?”

“Yes.”  He lowers his head. “It’s rather extraordinary and I think you will enjoy it. But it is not a daylight activity. You don’t have to accept or decline just now. I will know your answer tonight.”

“Um. Okay.”

Bram could have started a food fight during dinner and Ellana would not have noticed. Her mind whirls all evening. Is he sincere? Is he just messing with her? Would she be stupid to go? Would she be stupid not to go? What the hell does one do in the woods at three in the morning (that isn’t sex)? Can she hate him and still be curious enough to go?

In the end she sets her alarm for three in the morning – she will make her decision then, instead of agonizing over it all evening.

 

“Here. You’re going to need this.”

Dr. Felassan extends a thermos of fresh coffee and a flashlight. The noise of the coffee maker is what eventually propelled Ellana out of bed and made her decision. The act of preparing coffee (which was definitely not for him) was so hopeful and fragile that she knew she couldn’t disappoint him without feeling like a monster.

Though he quickly buries it, Ellana didn’t miss the way his eyes light up when he spotted her creeping out into the living room. Maybe Cole is right. Maybe there’s a lot of Dr. Felassan that hides underneath layers and layers of distant civility.

“Just so you know, I still reserve the right to be pissed at you,” she warns as she takes the thermos. “I’m just deeply curious about what’s out there.”

“I would expect no less,” he says, lips twitching as if he wants to smile.

A backpack sits on the counter. Dr. Felassan unzips various pockets for one last check while Ellana sips her coffee.

“Was I supposed to bring anything? A flashlight or something?”

He shakes his head. “Just yourself and your curiosity.”

“I have plenty of that.”

“Between that and the coffee there should be nothing stopping you.” He tucks his arms through the straps and looks at her expectantly.

“Shall we?”

Outside, the forest is a dark cacophony, a gaping maw ready to swallow them whole. The beam of the flashlight cuts through the darkness like an arrow, but it accomplishes little in the darkness of the new moon. Old ghost stories about Fen’Harel and murdered Dalish warriors out for revenge float from some forgotten corner of her mind just to torment her.

“How far away of a walk is this?” Ellana asks, swallowing her nerves.

“About an hour.” He gives her a sideways glance. “Don’t worry. It’s safe.”

“I’m not scared of the woods,” she says witheringly, and then nearly jumps out of her skin when she steps on a twig.

Ellana takes a long sip from her thermos and pointedly looks away from the hint of a smirk that plays on his mouth.

He walks ahead confident. His pale skin makes him look like a ghost, like the spirit of Fen'Harel leading her to her doom. Like Cole, he walks through the woods like he lives here, like he could navigate blindfolded (which they practically are in the darkness of the new moon). He must have walked this way several times in the darkness to know it so well. The night air is pleasantly cool and the clean, clear smell of it wakes her up faster than the coffee. Ellana is content to trail behind him.

After a while, though, the silence becomes unbearable.

“So, is this the part where you kill me and hide the body?”

Dr. Felassan laughs, a quiet, surprised huff. “No. I would have gone to the river for that. Or up a cliff.”

“True. Maybe you’re just a bad serial killer.”

“Or maybe you’re just my first victim.”

Ellana finds herself grinning. “So, do you just get revenge on all the people who fight with you?”

“If that were true, you would definitely not be my first victim.”

“Well, if you are out here to kill me, I’m not particularly worried.”

“No?”

“You’re not that much taller than me. I’m pretty sure I could take you on.”

“I’m sure you’re right. But I would not underestimate the strength of an archeologist. As you can see, most of the field work is just manual labor.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting that.”

They reach a huge fallen tree, its side reaching to Ellana’s waist. Dr. Felassan hops nimbly up it and reaches out for her hand.

“The media aren’t concerned with true archeology, just the end results,” he says as he pulls her up. His hands are cool, even in the night air, his palms rough with his work. “And it’s nothing like _Nevarra Jones_. No one dives alone in underwater caves for treasure or finds secret temples on the tops of mountains, and certainly the fate of world does not rest in a single artifact.”

“You know, that’s a lot of specific details for someone who hates those kinds of movies.”

“Unfortunately, I have many friends who love them.”

“Like who?”

Dr. Felassan jumps down and Ellana follows.

“Varric is one.”

“You know, he probably only watches them to irritate you.”

“Yes, that idea had occurred to me.”

“You still watch them anyway?”

“He’s quite persuasive when he wants to be.”

It kind of blows Ellana’s mind that Dr. Felassan has this whole relationship with someone so involved in her life and yet she’s never heard a word about him until this trip. Of course, Varric is famous enough to know all kinds of people, but it’s strange to hear his name fall so easily out of Dr. Felassan’s mouth.

“So, what is way the hell out here that’s so exciting?”

“An adventure.”

“You’re really not going to tell me?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise jump off a cliff,” she mutters.

“It’s possible.” Amusement warms his tone. “It’s not far from here, but we can stop and rest if you need it.”

He stops near a low-level outcropping of rock, perfect for sitting on. Ellana gapes up at him.

“Rest? Are you fucking kidding me? Are you trying to insult me?”

A look of pale horror crosses his face, intensified by the faint glow of the flash light. Oh gods, he probably thinks she’s about to explode on him again. She’s seen that look on so many of her clansmen when she was a kid.

“I could be asking the same for you, _hahren_ ,” she adds, trying to diffuse the sudden tension that’s risen. “If one of us could use a rest, it’s not going to be the young Dalish who grew up in the woods.”

She smirks at him to show she’s not angry and he relaxes.

“ _Hahren_? That’s quite a term of respect. I had no idea you felt that way about me.”

Ellana snorts. “You clearly haven’t been hearing it in its modern interpretation. If someone called my Keeper _Hahren_ , she’d slap them. A _hahren_ is one of those cranky old people who are set in their old ways and obsessed with complaining about anything that is different than their past experiences. You know, the shaking the cane and yelling out ‘Get off my lawn!’ kind of old people.”

“I’ve never been so flattered,” he says in such perfect deadpan that Ellana laughs. “But I have quite a ways before the old bones catch up with me, so shall we continue?”

The walk becomes decidedly more uphill after that until they reach the wall of a cliff, looming over them like the dark Veil in old fairytales.

_Oh no. Please don’t tell me –_

“Our destination lies above,” he says with disturbing cheer. “I’ve brought some rock climbing equipment with me, just a moment –”

“You cannot be fucking serious.”

He laughs, full bodied, and it transforms his face entirely. “No. I am not. There is a path around the corner.”

She glares at him. “You’re sadistic.”

“It is a little steep, mind you. You will have to be careful.”

The so-called path is only slightly less of a ninety-degree angle from herself, covered in loose rocks and dirt.

“ _That’s_ what you call a little steep?”

He blinks at her. “Are you telling me that a Dalish such as yourself couldn’t scale this?”

“Is that a challenge, old man?”

“I wouldn’t dare –”

Flashlight in her mouth, Ellana is already scrambling up the side of the path on all fours like some kind of bear. She is mindful not to kick down a lot of the gravel, but not overly delicate. Her only impediment is the laughter that escapes her mouth when she hears Dr. Felassan’s panicked scramble behind her.

She reaches the top first, but only barely. Ego or not, Ellana has to take a moment to catch her breath. Up on top of the cliff, there is nothing but flat rock as far as she can see – no trees or boulders obscure her view of the stars.

“I won,” she tells Dr. Felassan.

“You had a bit of a head start.” He sounds a bit breathless himself, but Ellana charitably doesn’t point this out.

“You have longer legs than me.”

“By about an inch. I would hardly consider than an advantage.” He slips off the backpack and rummages inside it before tossing her a water bottle.

“Thanks,” she says and chugs it rather ungracefully. Wiping water from her mouth, she gestures out at the black roiling landscape far below them. “So this surprise – is it the view? Because I have to say, nighttime is not the best opportunity.”

“It is the view, of a sort. Just not that one.”

He walks off to the left, his flashlight glinting off something metal and spherical that she somehow missed.

“What is that?”

Ellana watches in fascination as he putters around before resting his eyes against part of it.

“Perfect,” he announces, looking up. “This is an Astrarium. They are telescopes, created by an ancient Tevinter cult to guide their members to treasure caches or meeting places in secret via constellations."

Ellana’s eyebrows raise. "I bet the Chantry loved that."

"They destroyed many of them over the years. I've been excavating this slowly over the last few weeks, oiling it and aligning it. This time of year, you can see the Equinor, and I've been waiting for the new moon to show you.”

Ellana is hit with the sudden and uncomfortable realization that their passive aggressive Politeness Game might not have been a game at all. It might have been Dr. Felassan waiting for the right moment to apologize and offer her something unique and interesting as recompense. All this time Ellana has seethed and hated him while he worked in secret to give her this.

Not that he didn’t deserve it. He’s totally racist and classist and he always seemed so shocked that Ellana didn’t agree to slam her culture with him. But it’s also possible that he realized this and is trying to change.

The question remains on whether or not Ellana is up for the risk that he ruin it all again with one perfectly timed racist remark.

“Come, while I’ve got it perfectly lined up.”

Ellana walks over towards the Astrarium and places her eye against the small metal tube that flipped open on greased hinges.

There, perfectly square in her vision and zoomed in enough that it filled the whole of her vision was a familiar constellation. But never before has she seen in such perfect clarity. It almost takes her breath away, the sudden realization that she is looking at real stars, real suns burning light years away and she is nothing but a tiny speck on a tiny speck of a planet. 

"It's beautiful," she whispers. 

"I was hoping you would like it," he replies softly.

"What did you call this constellation? The Equus?"

"Equinor."

"Well that's not right. This is Hanal'ghilan," Ellana pulls away.

"Yes, it is," he says. "But Tevinter stole and adapted many of the constellations from ancient elven culture, including this one. I knew you would recognize it."

"Can you adjust it to see Ghilan'nain?" Ellana squints up at the sky, trying to locate it on her own.  The Halla Goddess forever chased her favorite creation in the stars, trailing to the east close by.

"I think so." Dr. Felassan takes her place at the astrarium and spins it with slow, rusty squeals that make Ellana wince. 

" . . . there. Try it now."

He takes a step to the side and Ellana leans in again. Ghilan'nain swims into vibrant focus, filling the scope of her vision. It feels like seeing an old friend.

“This one was always my favorite,” she says.

“Your vallaslin namesake?”

“Yeah. When I was little I always thought she was up here having so much fun. I used to dream about going up into the sky and playing with her.”

She can’t deny the apprehension that comes with sharing something personal about herself and her culture to him. It’s a test. If he uses this as another opportunity to say something wildly offensive she might very well push him off this fucking cliff.

“Truly there can be no doubt you received the right vallaslin.”

“Yeah, my keeper is uncannily good about that. It’s like she’s a mind reader or something. Nothing gets past her.”

“She raised you after your parents died, correct? She sounds like an incomparable woman.”

“She is.” A lump rises up in her throat and Ellana tries to swallow it down.

Dr. Felassan’s gaze softens. “You miss her a great deal.”

“I – yeah.” She sighs heavily. Against her better judgement it pours out from her. “It’s been a little rough being back in the Dales. Every day I’m reminded of home – the way it looks, the smells, the sounds. I forgot how much I missed it. Ever since I left I only had one opportunity to come back and visit, and it was a disaster. And now home is just a two-hour drive from here and it might as well be in the freaking Anderfels for all that I could go.

A long silence follows her outburst before Dr. Felassan speaks.

“Is that why you were so angry those first few days? Because being in this place reignited your homesickness?”

Ellana almost laughs. “Oh gods, no. That’s a whole other mess.”

“How so?”

“It’s a weird story and I’m not entirely sure I can get into it,” she says.

“I meant no pressure. I only wish to understand you. I feel as if I have done nothing but misunderstand you the whole time we’ve known each other.”

Something tugs inside her and she bites her lip.

“My situation at college is, um, really unorthodox. If you’re going to hear about it, you can’t judge it.”

“I wouldn’t dare. We are on the top of a cliff, you know, and I’m sure you could find the way back alone.”

Ellana gives him half a smile. “So how did you know I was coming? Like, who did you talk to?”

“I didn’t talk to anyone. After Colette broke her leg, we asked Skyhold for any applicants, and yours was the only application we received.”

“ . . . I had an application?”

Dr. Felassan blinks in surprise. “You . . . didn’t know?”

Fen’Harel, that sneaky son of a bitch. Ellana could kill him.

“Oh, that is it. Okay. Here’s the deal with me.”

She briefly explains her situation with Fen’Harel, trying (and failing) to make it sound more like an ordinary scholarship rather than some creepy set up with a mysterious stranger that could possibly fuck her over at any given moment. Dr. Felassan does not react in any way to the news, trying hard, as it appears, to not show any judgement or opinion whatsoever.

“You’re right,” he says when she’s finished. “It is a very unconventional situation. But it seems to be working well for you. I’m assuming, however, from your reaction earlier that you did not submit that application?”

“No. I didn’t.” She can’t help but sound bitter about it. It’s just one more way that Fen’Harel has taken control of her life.

He gives her a wary look. “Have you not enjoyed being here at all, then?”

Guilt stabs her. “No! I mean, I enjoy it a lot. It’s way more work than I was expecting, but I’ve missed nature and being in the woods, I’ve missed the Dales, I miss talking about my history. I’ve been at Skyhold for two years now and I’ve actually yet to see a class on just Elvhen history. It’s always a footnote in other people’s culture. Uncovering those paintings is probably the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

“But part of you is angry.”

“It’s not directed at you or at being in this place, not really.” Ellana bites her lip. “My sophomore year was really rough – math and computer science do not come easy for me. I worked my ass off all year; I barely had any time to relax or do anything for myself. And after all that, instead of going to the beach in Antiva with my best friend and catching my breath for a moment, I’m shipped here to bust my ass in the woods all summer. But really, the part that I hate is that I wasn’t asked. I was ordered. And now I know he went behind my back and submitted all this information without telling me. I just feel so . . .” she casts around for the right words.

“Patronized,” Dr. Felassan supplies, softly. “Patronized and disrespected.”

“Exactly. He’s treating me like a child who can’t make her own decisions. And maybe it was naïve of me to trust that he wouldn’t throw his weight around and use my debt to take control of my life, I know that. I was stupid.”

“You were not stupid,” he says. He looks almost angry. “You were not naïve. He’d been nothing but kind and understanding until that point and then he betrayed you. He deserves your anger.”

Ellana gives him a sad smile. “He holds so much over my head, it’s not like I could ever tell him.”

“I think you should. I think you should let nothing cower you or your spirit, no matter who it is.”

“Those are brave words coming from someone I’ve eviscerated more than once.”

“Then you should know how much I mean them.” His gaze is sharp, intense, and Ellana can’t hold it for long before looking away.

“We’ll see. Right now, I’m giving him the silent treatment. Maybe at the end of the summer, I’ll really let him have it.”

Dr. Felassan gives her a crooked smile. “All summer to build up your rage? That’s rather terrifying. You must tell me how it goes.”

“Maybe I’ll forward it to you, give you PTSD flashbacks.”

“I look forward to it.”

A flash of blue light interrupts the darkness as he checks the time on his watch. “We should get going if we want to make it back before the sun rises.”

Ellana gets to her feet and helps him pack up.

The walk back to the cabin is much quieter than the journey from it. Exhaustion steadily replaces the excitement and nerves that propelled her before and not even the last dregs of lukewarm coffee can give Ellana any energy. When they finally make it to the porch, Ellana sags against the railing. Dr. Felassan lingers beside her, his posture drooping like a wilted flower.

“I have to say, Dr. Felassan, this whole adventure was unexpectedly amazing. Thank you.”

He looks at her with a fondness that is starting to feel slightly less out of place now.

“It was my pleasure, Ellana. I . . . would like to use this as a chance to start over. Neither of us have put our best foot forward these last few weeks. Perhaps this evening can be our reboot.”

She considers this for a moment, then sticks her hand out. “My name is Ellana Lavellan. I love history, and I look forward to working here with you.”

He shakes her hand in a firm, cool grasp, their callouses pressing together. “My name is Dr. Solas Felassan, but please call me Solas. It will be a pleasure to have you here.”

Ellana grins. “I know we only just met, but I am beat. I’m going to sleep for roughly ten minutes before getting up all over again.”

“I think I shall do the same. _On nydha¸_ Ellana.”

“ _On nydha_ , Solas.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone still hanging around, I love you. Come talk to me on tumblr. 
> 
> blarfkey.tumblr.com


	11. Summer After Sophomore Year -- The Emerald Graves Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy Howdy has this summer been interesting. It has left little room for writing. But on the eve of my first day back at work, I gift you with the meager fruits of my summer labors. Thank you to everyone who comments and kudos and reads and rereads. I see you and I love you.

It feels like someone took out all of the blood in Ellana’s body and replaced it with concrete. Her eyelashes stick together like magnets. It takes three attempts for Merrill to wake her up. Finally, with ten minutes to spare, Ellana stumbles out of the bedroom and makes a beeline straight for the coffee maker.

“Top of the morning, Ellana,” Bram says cheerfully from the kitchen table.

Ellana just grunts at him like an Avvar caveman. She pours herself a generous cup and starts taking as big of sips as she dares, ignoring the way it scalds her lips. No cream. No sugar. If she could inject the caffeine directly into her bloodstream, she would.

Solas emerges from his room and shuffles over towards Ellana. She takes one look at the dark circles under his eyes and pours him a mug.

“Here. You’re going to need this,” she says.

“ _Ma sarranas_ ,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse and gravely and -- okay.

Ellana is much more awake now.

He closes his eyes, steeling himself, and then starts downing the coffee like a man lost in the desert. Afterward, his face pinches tight as if he had eaten a lemon, rind and all.

“Why do you drink coffee if you hate it so much?” she asks.

“Desperation.”

“Maybe if you put sugar in it, you’ll like it more.”

He shakes his head, eyes wide and solemn. “Nothing will _ever_ make this tolerable. Ever.”

“O- _kay._ Well, I don’t know what traumatic event caused such strong feelings, but I’m sorry.”

His lips twitch into a hint of a smile.

Work that day is particularly grueling. Ellana is so exhausted she can hardly lift her hedge trimmers. She uncovers a pathetic square foot before lunch, which she can barely chew. Like a phone battery on one percent, her body is starting to shut down whether she wants it to or not. Usually every day Cole passes out for a cat nap during lunch, so she stumbles over to the soft patch of shaded grass and collapses beside him.

In minutes she is dead to the world.

When she wakes up again, Cole has put his hat over her face to block out the sun. Something warm leans against her arm. When she takes the hat off, she sees Solas sleeping beside her, head lolled close enough to her cheek that she can just barely feel his breath.

His eyelashes look like splashes of ink. The bruise of his broken nose has almost completely faded, his freckles resurfacing.

Slowly his eyes flutter open, like some kind of princess in a fairy tale. Ellana darts her gaze away before he thinks she does nothing but stare at him.

“See anything interesting?”

Busted. She turns her gaze back and looks at the slight bump in his nose. “Your nose is going to be crooked.”

“So is yours,” he counters. His lips twitch into his signature almost-smile. “I suppose we left our mark on each other.”

“Oi, you two,” calls Bram from under the canvass. “You going to sleep all day? What’s gotten into ya? You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“No, my friend.” Solas sits up. “Just trouble sleeping last night.”

There’s a pause while Bram looks quickly between the two of them before shaking his head. Ellana almost flushes at how it must look to him. “That’s not usually a problem for you, eh?”

Solas holds out his hand to Ellana and helps her to her feet with sure and easy strength.

“The stars were too bright last night,” Cole adds oh so helpfully.

For a moment Ellana and Solas freeze, eye to eye, hands still clasped together. Then he releases her, quickly and subtly, and steps away.

But as usual, Bram and Merrill give Cole a good-hearted smile and ignore his non-sequiturs

Rejuvenated by her nap, Ellana attacks the wall with enough vigor to hopefully throw off suspicion. She definitely knows the conclusions her clan would jump to if they saw her and Solas napping together because the night before exhausted them. It must be on his mind as well, because Solas doesn’t avoid her – that would definitely cause suspicion – so much as he keeps his standard polite distance. But after last night’s give and take that came so easily, as if they had been friends for years, it feels strange.

On the walk back to the cabin, Bram tries to teach her the lyrics of the drinking song he hummed this morning. His accent comes out thicker when he sings, a mess of syllables that jam into one another.

“I can’t understand you!” Merrill says, laughing. “He pit his airm aboot haer neck? A boot? A shoe around her neck?”

“No! Aboot – ach!” Bram laughs and takes a deep breath before slowing down. “About. He put his arm around her neck.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“I did!”

Eventually Merrill realizes exactly what the song’s about and she goes red in the face and sputters.

“I can’t believe you were singing that! When we were making breakfast!”

“It’s an ancient drinking song,” says Bram with mock innocence. “What else would it be about? Surely the elves have some that are just as bawdy, eh Solas?”

“I am not an expert in that particular field,” Solas protests.

“The Dalish sing about trees and flowers and animals,” Merrill says. “Nice, happy things.”

“Ha!” Ellana cries so loud it nearly echoes around them. “Bull _shit_. I know a song that would make even the tips of Solas’s ears red.”

Bram’s eyes light up. “Let’s hear it, then! That would be quite an accomplishment.”

Her eyes dart over to Solas, who looks at her with one eyebrow raised as if to say _Do your worst._

“It’s in Elvish,” she warns before launching into a merry tune that she, Danyla, and Mihris used to sing at the top of their lungs when hiking around the orchard, back when such acts made her feel rebellious and edgy, despite the complete lack of easily offended adults or children around them at the time.

Merrill’s eyes grow wider with every verse, and Solas’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. She keeps eye contact with him the longest as she sings her favorite part, where the two elves have sex next to a statue of Fen’Harel. The song ends with them cursed for their folly, in ways that are just as lewd as the act that brought about the curse.

Sure enough, there is a rosy glow climbing up the side of his neck, but nothing compares to Merrill, whose face shines bright as an ember.

“I admit, I’ve never heard that one before,” Solas admits.

“You want to help me translate it for our pal Bram?” She asks innocently.

“You will need to ply me with quite a bit of wine before that happens.” His lips quirk in that half smile of his.

“I’ll have to give you the gist of the story,” Ellana tells Bram. “I’m not so great at direct translating on the fly.”

Bram grins after she explains the lyrics to him. “Oh, we have a song like that! Only it’s a statue of Andraste instead of Fen’Harel, and my mother slapped me once for repeating it.”

“That sounds awesome and you should teach it to me.”

“Oh Creators,” Merrill mutters. “Cole, cover your ears!”

 

It’s been three weeks, and all that anyone has found are two paintings of dubious integrity. By now, Ellana, Cole, and Harding have uncovered a stretch of roughly two hundred feet of wall while Solas, Bram, and Merrill have sifted through about eight squared off sections.

Despite their progress there is still _so much_ to do. There’s a second layer and parts of a third layer of arches completely overgrown on all the walls and vine covered lumps of fallen pieces scattered around the area, not to mention all the soil layers still left for Bram, Solas, and Merrill to uncover inch by agonizing inch.

Ellana looks around on their lunch break and despairs.

“This is never to get done, is it?” she says.

“What do you mean?” Solas asks.

“I mean, look at everything.” She gestures hopelessly at the ruins, which still mostly resemble a jungle. “There’s only five of us. It’ll take _years_ at this rate.”

“Well . . . yes. Of course it will. Did you think we would be done by summer’s end?”

“ . . . yes,” Ellana admits, somewhat reluctantly.

Bram bursts into laughter. “If we had a bulldozer, maybe.”

“If we could even fit one through the entrance,” adds Solas.

Even Merrill smiles. “Harding would bury you both with it, I think.”

Bram leans closer to her and whispers conspiratorially. “What if I told you there’s a strong possibility that we might never finish it? That we would have to leave it behind, once the funding runs out?”

“ _What_?” Ellana practically yelps.

“It’s true,” says Solas. “Our funding depends on what kind of artifacts we find here. If there isn’t a sufficient amount, the funding is cut and we move on. Sometimes architecture alone, as lovely as it can be, is not enough to justify the funding.”

“How can ruins be totally devoid of artifacts when people lived there?”

“Time. Time and the elements are a historian’s greatest enemy. Sometimes archeologists discover a ruin too late, after the world has destroyed all but the stone foundation.”

“I see pictures all the time of busted piles of rocks that used to be some kind of temple for Andraste or whatever.”

“The Chantry has deep pockets and a vested interest in anything related to its history,” says Bram.

“But elven ruins have to justify their existence by revealing some astounding artifacts while every rotting foundation of a Chantry house gets lovingly restored? That’s bullshit. No offense, Bram, but that is total fucking bullshit.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” he says. “I know it’s unfair. And also incredibly boring. I mean if you see one armless, busted Andraste statue, you’ve seen them all.”

“Don’t you specialize in Chantry history?”

“Early Chantry,” Bram says. “From the Navarran Accords and before. That’s when everything was rough and new and exciting. Once the religion spread and dominated Thedas, it became violent and messy and full of politics. I try to stay away from all that nonsense.”

“So what kind of artifacts would we need to find to make all this worth it?” she asks.

“More than sherds of pottery, I’ll tell you that,” adds Bram. “Weapon and armor fragments, pieces of cookware or furniture, that kind of thing.”

“The paintings alone give a lot of interest,” says Solas, “but anything that points to what kind of purpose this place had, where in history it falls.”

“Well it’s not looking very promising right now,” she says.

Solas gives her that half-smile. “Patience, Ellana. It will come.”

 

As if Solas had spoken some kind of magic spell, Bram uncovered something not two hours later.

“Andraste’s stars and garters, look at this!”

Everyone immediately abandons all pretense of work and rushes over to crouch next to Bram as his soft bristled brush swipes dirt away like an excited little bird.

Something dull and rectangular-ish with sharp edges emerges, nearly the same color as the dirt around it. It could fit in the palm of Ellana’s hand, and quite frankly, she is not impressed.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Bram says happily. “It could be anything – a piece of a sword, or tool, or armor.  Part of a lock of some sort.”

“How will you ever find out?”

“You study it, of course. Compare it to other artifacts in the area, once we find more, or to artifacts found in similar cultures or time periods. That’s usually done at the university. We just collect them for now.”

Solas and Merrill abandon their section as soon as their squares are finished and concentrate more effort around Bram’s section. The excitement over Bram’s discovery zings through them like an electric current.

By the end of the day, Merrill reaches the stone bricks underneath. Even though no artifacts are discovered with it, everyone reacts with the same level of enthusiasm as Bram’s metal shard.

“Each layer is like a moment in time,” Solas explains as they head home. “Removing each layer is a bit like time travel. The fact that the floor is buried underneath so many layers of dirt means that the ruins are very old indeed. Now that we are closer to it, the discovery of more artifacts is much more likely.”

Ellana remains skeptical that stone bricks and metal shards actually mean anything, but she can’t help but be buoyed by the happiness of the others.

 

The next day Merrill finds a black, misshapen cylinder and all hell breaks loose. Everyone huddles around the folding table under the canopy as she gently cleans the dirt off with a bottle of water and a soft cloth. Then they all take turns passing it around and inspecting it.

“It’s heavy,” Cole says.

He drops it into Ellana’s hand, which sinks under the sudden weight.

“It’s metal of some sort,” Solas says. “Most likely an iron ore deposit.”

“It’s shaped a bit oddly for that,” Bram remarks. “Perhaps it’s scrap metal from a forge.”

Solas shakes his head. “It’s not burned.”

Ellana rolls it around in her hand as the rest continue to throw out their interpretations. The lump looks familiar in a way that nags at her, but it’s identity remains as elusive as an Elvhen word that sits in the tip of her tongue. It’s only when she flips it over and notices an indention on the bottom, that it finally hits her.

“It’s part of a hammer,” she says. “Look, the bottom has a hole for the handle, which probably rotted away. But this end here is flatter and rounder than the other end, which makes it look like the kind one of my clansmen uses.”

Bram’s eyes light up. “Sweet Maker, I think you’re right! Do you know what this means?”

Solas smiles in response. “There was a forge here.”

“Which means the shard that Bram found could have been part of a weapon!”

Bram, Solas, and Merrill concentrate their efforts around the area of the discovery, while Ellana and Cole return to the wall. It’s hard not to be jealous of the others when the vines bore Ellana to tears and make her feel like she’s spinning her wheels, but she doesn’t have the training to comb through each soil layer so meticulously.

By the end of the day, Merrill’s discovery remained the only one, but the hike back home is anything but disappointed. Speculation of the ruin’s original purpose abounds, ranging from a garrison for Emerald Knight soldiers to some kind of marketplace or blacksmithing shop and everything in between. Even through his usual austerity, Ellana can sense the excitement in Solas.

“I’m surprised you’re this happy over something that’s not Arlathan-related,” she tells him.

He looks at her in surprise. “It’s still elven history, even if it is more recent than what I’m typically used to. But relics of Arlathan are difficult to find and scarce in number. If I were so exclusive, I would have very little work.”

“You could always go back to teaching until someone finds another site,” Ellana suggests.

“I suppose. I have been away for quite some time. But I find the ideal of teaching suits me better than the reality of it.”

“How so?”

Solas takes a moment to answer. “When one finds a like-minded student, teaching is wonderful. I enjoy watching other people learn, seeing their joy as they discover for the first time something I’ve known for years. It keeps alive my sense of wonder. Alas, most of the students I’ve encountered either did not appreciate history the way they should have or were in my class for last minute credit and the like. I’ve met very few students who share my love of history. You and Merrill are some of the only ones.”

“So, you like teaching so long as it fits into your ideal situation,” she clarifies.

“I suppose you could see it that way. I also miss being in the field, surrounded by actual history instead of just looking at photographs.”

“Now that I can understand.”

 

It becomes harder to leave the ruins after that. The temptation to stay longer, just five more minutes to sift through this last layer/get a head start for tomorrow/go back through the old dirt just to make sure they didn’t miss anything becomes hard to ignore even though the exhaustion. Not even a three day stretch of zero discoveries could dampen the excitement.

But a heat index of a hundred and two definitely will.

Dalish summers are always humid, but this day in particular dawns with fog that hangs thick as soup, and it only gets worse from there.

Ten minutes into the hike, everyone is drenched in sweat. You could drown by breathing too deeply. And of course, the sun burns through the canopy with vicious intent. When they reach the site, they all stand under the shaded canopy and chug water, bracing themselves for the work ahead.

For the first couple of hours, the misery level holds pretty steadily. But the closer it gets to noon and the higher the sun rises overhead, the worse it gets. The whole forest looks hazy, like something out of a dream, from the humidity.

Before lunch, Bram’s walkie talkie crackles to life, and Harding’s voice comes through.

“So, I just checked your cabin and none of you are there,” she says, sounding highly irritated. “Please tell me that you’re not at the site right now.”

Bram and Solas exchange guilty looks. Bram holds up the walkie and hesitates a moment.

“Ah . . . yes. Yes, we are. Is there a problem?”

“Is there a problem?!” The walkie crackles with the force of her yell. “Yes, the problem is called a seventy-five-degree dew point and a heat index of a hundred and two! Get the hell out of there or you are all going have a heat stroke by the afternoon, and we can’t airlift you out of there.”

“You worry too much,” says Bram. “The trees provide excellent shade, and we’ve got plenty of water.”

The walkie is silent for a moment, and Ellana can imagine Harding taking a moment to compose herself. “The trees trap in humidity. Your body cannot cool off in high humidity. Ergo, heat stroke. This is the worst possible time to be working. Go home.”

Bram and Solas exchange a long look before Solas nods his head. “Aye,” Bram replies. “We’ll pack up. Thanks, Lady Harding.”

“Just trying to make sure you stay safe,” she says. “It looks bad on my record if any of you die.”

Ellana doesn’t hide the relief on her face as they pack up. As exciting as the site has become, she probably wouldn’t have made it until the evening without passing out. Judging from the looks on everybody else’s faces, they’re not too beat up about cutting the day short either.

The hike back to the cabin is quiet with their suffering. Ellana ponders on how she will spend the unexpected day off – it’s too hot to hike or read on the porch. Really, all she wants to do is stand in front of the freezer with the door open and –

A glint of light catches her attention. It’s the river, sparkling at the edge of the horizon. And suddenly Ellana knows exactly what she’s going to do.

When they reach the front porch, Ellana slings off the backpack of supplies and dumps it by the door.

“I’m heading to the river,” she says. “Who wants to join me?”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Merrill sighs, dropping the cooler. “Count me in.”

“Aren’t you going to change first?” Solas asks her.

She looks down at her mud-covered, sweat-drenched t-shirt and shorts. “Why?”

He raises an eyebrow. “No reason.”

They all end up following her to the river, even Solas, who brings up the rear after he dashed into the cabin for his book. Once the swing comes into view, Ellana rushes to the bank, toes her shoes off, and dives right in. Istie’s voice echoes in her head about the dangers of underwater branches, glass in the sand, water snakes, blah blah blah. But Ellana is too hot to care. The water feels luxurious, wrapping around her like cool silk, and she could happily drown herself rather than deal with the muggy, sticky air above for one more second.

Just when her burning lungs can’t take it anymore, Ellana breaks through the surface, gasping and feeling like a mermaid. She’s in the middle of the river now and just becoming aware of the shouting by the beach.

“Sweet Maker, woman, you swim like a fish,” Bram hollers. “We thought you were dead!”

“I could have gone all the way across the river when I was younger,” Ellana says. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to swim.”

To prove her point, Ellana takes a deep breath and swims back to shore under the water. By the time she resurfaces, Merrill and Cole have already tugged their shoes off and are wading through the water, while Bram sits on a rock with his shoes off and pants rolled up. Solas has taken residence underneath a nearby tree and watches them with his book in his lap.

“You scared of the water, Bram?” Ellana asks. She crawls up to the rock, shallow water up to her chin, and splashes his leg.

“Oi! If I take these clothes off, this delicate skin will sizzle like Ferelden Fried Chicken,” he says. “I’m Starkhaven – the sun doesn’t exist up there.”

“Creators, Bram, have you never swam in your clothes before?” Ellana rolls her eyes. “And the Chantry says elves are the ones running wild and naked.”

“Wouldn’t they get . . . ” He stops abruptly.

“Dirty? Were you going to say dirty?”

“No. No I was not.” He kicks water at her face before sliding down the rock and landing next to her.

Solas pointedly ignores all cries for him to join them. Ellana doesn’t know how he does it, sitting in the heat like that, even if he is in the shade. They swim for a little while – Ellana and Bram do have a race, from the sandbar in the middle of the river to the other side and back (which he lost with good humor) – before their fun is punctured by a strange, primal sounding cry.

“What the –”

Ellana sees only an orange-tinted blur hurtling through the air on the rope swing – zinging close enough to her head that she felt the breeze as it passed – before it crashes into the river with a terrific splash. A few seconds later, Harding’s head pops up, her hair streaming behind her like an orange peel.

“I hoped you all would be here,” she says, spitting water out. “For a while I was worried I’d find your bodies passed out on the trail back to the cabin.”

“We didn’t dare question the Lady Harding’s orders,” says Bram.

Harding’s dramatic entrance inspires recreation. Ellana is the first to scramble up the tree, swing in hand, and jump off. The swing gets an astonishing amount of air, sending her catapulting halfway across the river before she lets go. Merrill frets for so long that Ellana ends up pushing her off the tree and Cole forgets that he has to let go at some point, so he swings back and forth like a pendulum until he slips into the water with the grace of an eel.

“You’re not going to get in on this?” Harding calls to Solas.

“Don’t bother with him,” Ellana says, loud enough for Solas to hear. “He’s got a medical condition.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s called stickupyourass. It’s very debilitating. It requires intense surgery, and some people never recover from it.”

Harding laughs, but Ellana keeps her gaze trained on Solas, who acts as if he didn’t hear her at all. Ah well. If he wants to die in a puddle of his own sweat then so be it. Creators forbid he relax and have a little fun.

She starts a splash fight with Cole, who just sits and takes it.

“Thank you. That felt nice,” he says.

“You’re supposed to splash me back,” Ellana explains. “It’s a splash fight.”

His eyes grow wide. “Oh!”

And then he cups his hands and sends a tidal wave that drenches her entire upper body.

“Damn!” Ellana coughs. “You’re on my side. I call dibs.”

Bram and Harding immediately team up, leaving Merrill to switch sides like the secret traitor she is whenever she thinks one team is losing too badly. Hiding behind Cole’s hat amid the onslaught of Harding’s attacks, she misses the swing fly past her until it hits the back of her head on its return.

A huge splash soaks everyone from behind. The spot under the tree is empty. Ellana searches for Solas and sees no sign of him.

Something grabs her ankle and yanks her down into the water. She barely has time to scream, kicking like a maniac and remembering all the river monster stories Aenor loved to tell. When she resurfaces, Solas is blinking water from his eyes and smiling.

“That was surprisingly refreshing,” he says.

“Well I’ll be damned,” she says. “There is a cure for stickupyourass.”

“Yes. It’s cruel mockery.”

She smirks at him. “Whatever works, am I right?”

Solas stays in the river with them until the end. He even gets involved in their game of chicken, starting out as the referee, a role he takes with comic seriousness. Then Harding throws Ellana on her ass for the third time in a row.

“That is it!” she pushes her wet hair out of her face. “Solas, get over here. Let me get on your shoulders. No offense, Cole, but your shaky bird legs aren’t cutting it.”

“They would if you weren’t so heavy,” he protests.

“I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear that.”

“Oi, that’s not fair!” Bram cries. “You can’t sit on Solas’s shoulders. The two of you together will be ten feet tall!”

“Well clearly Harding’s got some center of gravity advantage, so what’s fair about that?” Ellana shoots back.  “Come on, Solas. I am going to take her down if it’s the last thing I do.”

“You are disturbingly competitive,” Bram remarks.

Solas just blinks at her. “Are you certain about this?”

“Yes! Quit clutching your pearls and get over here.”

He and Cole trade places. Ellana has him bend down in front of her while she climbs over his back like the most awkward, half-finished game of leap frog. She sways a bit as he slowly stands up, her hand scrambling for purchase on top of his smooth head, but his firm grip on her thighs steadies her.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Quit squirming.”

Ellana swallows thickly and tries to be still. Despite his steady grip (or because of it) Harding still sends Ellana slipping backwards into the water. It hurts her pride, but Ellana concedes defeat.

“You’re a beast,” she says.

Harding beams. “Thank you.”

When they finally make it back to the cabin, the sun has nearly disappeared over the trees. Too exhausted to cook anything involved, Bram and Ellana scramble a bunch of eggs and stick some bacon in the oven for dinner. No one stays up, not even Cole, who has passed out on the couch with the T.V. on.

Even so, Ellana can’t get the sight of Solas’s wide, long-fingered hands wrapped around her thighs out of her head.

 

It storms all that night and by the next morning the world is soaking and drenched and bearable again. Mud covers everything, the trees drip on them like miniature rainstorms, and the site has seen better days. The uniform rectangles that Solas, Bram, and Merrill have worked on are all washed out.

It’s a veritable mud bath. Every vine that comes down brings a cascade of water and mud with it. Even Solas has given up on staying clean. But as the sun climbs higher, the site begins to dry out and reveal new treasures.

Around mid-afternoon, Solas finds what looks like a chipped, pointy rock. But Ellana had found enough old arrow heads in creek beds to recognize it instantly.

He rinses it carefully off in the small bucket of water beside him and holds it up while everyone crowds around him.

“Be careful where you step,” he cautions.

Three more were found in the same area in a matter of minutes. Apparently, the rain had washed out enough dirt to reveal them. It kickstarted Bram and Merrill to do their own squares with feverish excitement, and by the time they needed to pack up, several more arrow heads were found, along with a few more pottery sherds.

“To find so many clustered together implies that they were all being stored in one container,” Solas says on the walk back home. “Which further implies that this area could have been a military base of some kind for the Emerald Knights.”

“Holy shit.” To think at how she had scoffed at the site her first week there, thinking it nothing but a bunch of old stones.

“Of course, there isn’t enough evidence to prove that conjecture, but it’s a valid hypothesis.”

“What else could it be?” she asks.

“Any number of things. Perhaps it was a marketplace that had a fletcher’s stall. Perhaps it was some sort of trading post. It’s possible that the structure is older and the Knights coopted it to merely stash belongings they were never able to retrieve again.”

“That’s less cool than a military base,” Ellana points out.

“If one gets into archeology thinking that every site is as dramatic as the potential of this particular one, then one should look elsewhere for a career. Often it is very long, hard hours for very little repayment.”

“And then you stumble on a military base for the fucking Emerald Knights.”

He smiles at her. “And then you find a military base for the Emerald Knights.”

 

More discoveries turn up after that. Longer shards of blades; pottery pieces that still had faint traces of paint; curved, battered metal that could be parts of shields. Nothing domestic so far, so Solas holds the current consensus that the ruins are definitely militaristic.

Even so, Ellana has a hard time picturing it. Despite the new findings that accumulate on the tables every day, her mind can’t fill in the space of the ruins to envision it whole and bustling with activity. It still looks like an overgrown bunch of rocks to her.

“I don’t see it,” she tells Solas at lunch. He sketches with one hand the findings of the morning while eating with the other hand.

“See what?” He wipes away a few bread crumbs with his pinky finger.

Ellana waves a hand at the ruins. “You know, the fort or garrison or whatever this was supposed to be.”

Solas pauses at that and looks up at her. “Really? What do you see?”

“What’s already out here, I guess. I just see the leftovers, I can’t picture what it used to be.”

“Hmmm. That’s unfortunate.”

He goes back to his sketching and Ellana leaves him to it. Now that real progress is being made, Bram, Merrill, and even Cole have been sucked into categorizing, documenting, and organizing the finds. Ellana just worries about her section of the wall and leaves the rest to the professionals.

 

Though Ellana is a morning person by nature, she draws the line before sun-up. But that doesn’t stop her from waking up Saturday morning to Cole’s wide, unblinking stare.

She jerks back so hard she nearly hits her head on the wall. “ _Fenedhis!_ ” she hisses. “Cole, what the _fuck_?”

“You have to see this,” he whispers urgently. “Hurry, before they leave.”

He rustles Merrill from her bed as well, and the two of them stumble after Cole to the back porch. He presses a finger to his lips before silently opening the door and ushering them outside.

Ellana’s breath catches.

Grazing between the trees a few yards away are a dozen halla. In the grey dawn, they look ethereal, like the spirits of Ghilan’nain who guide wayward Dalish back to their homes.

“Don’t make sudden movements or sounds,” Cole murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “They will scatter if they’re scared.”

“I know.”

How many times had she sat on Istie’s porch with a cup of tea and watched them fade out of the trees? They were always hungry for Istie’s roses, and she woke Ellana up early to guard them. So used to their presence, the halla would walk up to Ellana and eat out of her hand. They used to follow Dany around, even the wild ones, like something out of a folk tale.

The memory of it rises sharp and sudden. Tears track down her cheeks before she even notices that she’s crying.

Merrill slips her hand inside of Ellana’s, her eyes bright.

“I’m sorry,” Ellana says, wiping her face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You can only lock feelings away for so long before they come bursting out,” Merrill says.

The halla jerk their heads up at the sound of Ellana and Merrill’s voices, but they don’t run. Perhaps they are also used to campers.

“I don’t want to have feelings,” Ellana says. “I can never go back – there’s no point in missing any of it. I have to move on.”

Merrill gives her a sad smile. “That’s not how it works.”

More tears come – Ellana can’t wipe them away fast enough. “I’m so angry at them,” she says, “yet I still miss them, and I _hate it._ I hate feeling this way. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and now all I want to do is go back. It’s pathetic.”

Merrill’s hand rubs soothing circles on her back. “It’s not pathetic. It’s your identity. You can’t hide from who you are and what you love.”

“Well the alternative sucks. What’s the other option besides stuffing it all away to the back of your head or suffering all the time?”

“When you figure that out, you can tell me.”

“It’s like steam from a pot,” Cole says softly. He keeps his focus steadfastly on the Halla. “You have to let it out a little bit at a time. All at once will burn you, and keeping the lid on will make it explode.”

Hesitantly, he turns to her and places a hand on her upper arm. “There is more than one way to have a clan.”

With that he turns and leaves. Merrill and Ellana stay and watch the Halla until her tears are just an embarrassing memory.

 

“I’ve thought about what you said the other day.”

Ellana looks up from her sandwich to see Solas looming over her, his sketchbook in hand.

“I would like to show you something, if you’re up for it.”

“Only if I can take my sandwich with me.”

“I would never dream of parting the two of you.”

He takes her to the other side of the ruins and sits down in the shade, patting the spot beside him for Ellana to do the same.

“When I look at ruins,” he says, “the leftovers as you called them do nothing but guide me to see the fuller picture. Each artifact we uncover gives me more clues to see what kind of life was lived in these walls. But it takes time and training and much experience to see what I see, so I tried to sketch it out for you.”

He flips open the sketch book somewhere around the middle and hands it over to her.

The lines are loose and imprecise, but the picture of a busy fort could not be clearer. Ellana can barely recognize the structure of the walls around them underneath what Solas has added.

“The roof was probably made of thin layers of hide or canvas that sloped downwards, which would have rotted away long ago.” His finger traces the features as he points them out. “Based on the locations of our findings, the forge was most likely situated here and built for basic repairs rather than serious weapons output.”

Sketched around the forge are two elves, one with a broken-tipped sword at his side, the other with his head thrown back.

“Is this elf . . . laughing?” she asks.

“Yes.” Solas lips quirk upwards. “I imagine the one on the left broke his sword fooling around.”

The more Ellana studies the picture, the more examples of life pop out at her. Three elves visit around a campfire – with one elf trying to sneak the leftover bread off the plate of the person next to him. Two elves argue with each other on a stone pathway that stretches through the middle of the compound. One elf sleeps, hidden between the arches, while several archers practice below him.

Solas walks her through it all, describing every sensation, from the sound of swords clanging in the practice yard, the smell of mutton roasting on the campfire to the taste of smoke in the air. In that moment, the ruins transformed around her, the rot and rubble falling away to reveal the life beneath them, as if she had stepped backwards in time.

“ _Banal’halam_ ,” she murmurs.

A smile blooms slow and warm on his face. “Yes. _Banal’halam.”_

She turns her gaze back to him. “I wish I had the vision that you have.”

He bows his head. “Take Bram to any Chantry rubble, and he can do the same. With time and experience, the skill could be yours as well.”

“Maybe.” She doubts she will have that kind of time with her computer science job. Even so, she keeps the idea in the traitorous, hopeful part of her heart.

 

The wonder of that moment lingers within her. It gives her renewed purpose, and she looks around the ruins with fresh eyes, taking each crumbled corner and trying to imagine the people and activities that could happen there. She only has a month or so left to practice the kind of sight that Solas and Bram possess.

Only one thing trips her up, and that is the overgrown tree in the middle of the ruins. It’s small but feisty, clinging determinedly on top of a vine-covered mass of some sort.

“That tree wasn’t in your drawing,” she says to Solas at lunch.

“It’s merely vegetation that arrived after this place was abandoned. It didn’t need to be included.”

“It’s sprouting on top of something, and it’s in a pretty prominent spot. It could be something important.”

“It nothing more than a piece of rubble that has fallen and become overgrown. I would forget about it for now.”

Ellana tries to follow his advice, but the thing nags at her. There are other fallen pieces of rubble covered in vines – a whole spire sits somewhere near the left exit – but none of them are quite shaped like this one. The only architecture around them are rounded arches and spires and nothing that looks like the indistinct blob under the tree.

After a couple of days, she gets tired of wondering and investigates it herself, sandwich in one hand and hedge trimmers in the other. Let Solas make fun of her if it turns out to be nothing, but at least she will silence the voice in her head.

“You’re wasting your time, you know.”

Solas hovers, and she doesn’t have to see his face to feel the smugness that radiates from it.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” she says, studying the vegetation for any signs of Royal Elfroot or other rare plants that Harding would have her hide for. All she can see are just more of the vines that cover everything else around here.

“You might want to stand back,” she warns, before cramming the rest of her sandwich in her mouth and hefting her trimmers.

“I remember the optimism of my freshman days as an archeologist. But not everything is significant. I also had to learn that the hard way.”

She ignores him, her mouth too full of sandwich to offer a retort anyway, and focuses on the task at hand. It takes a while, but eventually she starts uncovering glimpses of dark stone underneath the layers of dirt she brushes off with her hands.

That’s all she has time for before lunch ends and she returns to her section of the wall. But she returns every day for the rest of the week, slowly hacking away a strange protrusion in between two roots. By the weekend, Ellana has uncovered enough of the stone to suspect that it’s carved. It curves back and to the left in too gentle a slope to be natural. And above the slope, she discovers a perfectly round hole, as wide as her hand, packed with dirt.

Whatever the hell this is, it’s definitely not natural.

She digs the dirt out of the hole with her fingers. It’s perfectly sloped like a bowl, and the ridge of rock that runs above it –

Instinct drives Ellana to cut away the section a few hand-spans across from the first hole, only to find a matching hole and smooth ridge above it. The rock curves down towards herself on either side of the holes.

They’re eye sockets.

This is a face.

She scrabbles to dig out the bottom half, digging in with her fingernails, until she uncovers a long, wide snout, like a dog’s.

This isn’t – no. No way. Oh Creators, if her instinct is correct, she is going to spend the rest of the summer rubbing it in Solas’ face.

She conquers the cheeks next and the wide ruff of stone fur that juts out past the eyes. And then the forehead, pushing spindly tree branches out of her way to reach the top. Bram hollers at her that lunch is over, but Ellana ignores it. On either side of the spindly roots lies two mounds, almost imperceptible underneath the layers of dirt and vegetation. The left one she uncovers with her bare hands, pulling out vines with a ferocity that she has never felt before.  

It’s a worn, rounded triangle.

“Solas!” she hollers, pulse roaring in her ears. “You need to see this!”

He arrives just as she’s scooping dirt out of the inside of the ear.

“It’s a snout!” she shows him what she uncovers. “And these are the eyes, and this is an ear.”

His face betrays nothing – no eye-rolling, no humility at being wrong. He neither confirms nor denies her – he just stares.

“I think it’s a dog,” Ellana says, eyeing his blank face with some trepidation. “The Emerald Knights had war dogs.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s a wolf.” He steps up beside her to draw his fingers reverently down the snout.

“Not – not _the_ Wolf?” she says, hardly daring to hope.

“Yes.” He turns to her and she realizes the blankness of his expression is just shock. “This is a statue of Fen’Harel.”

“I thought . . . I thought those kinds of statues were outside of Dalish camps,” she says slowly. “To keep the Dread Wolf at bay. And this one –”

“Lies in the middle, in a place of importance,” Solas finishes.

“Why would any Dalish do that?”

“Exactly.”

It’s almost too insane to believe. And yet, despite the shock and wonder that courses through her system, she still finds the ability to nudge Solas with her elbow.

“Some worthless, broken piece of wall, am I right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ma sarannas -- thank you
> 
> fenedhis -- wolf penis. I personally consider it the Elvhen equivalent of "motherfucker"
> 
> banal'halam -- a word without a true translation in English. Meaning the concept of souls and memories travelling onward throughout history within the minds and hearts of loved ones, thus meaning that everything -- in a small way -- is immortal. Buildings will remain, clues will remain of lost cultures, dead loved ones live onward in our memories. Nothing truly ends. 
> 
> All Elvhen comes from fenxshiral and Bioware.
> 
> I have done my best to research everyday archaeology, but I know there are some definite gaps. If anyone spots something inaccurate, don't hesitate to tell me! I want to get this right. Or at least mostly right.


	12. The Summer After Sophomore Year -- The Emerald Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my job and my personal life has gotten pretty chaotic here in the last couple of months. I wanted to finish up the Emerald Graves this chapter, but I still have a nice chunk still left to write and no time to write it. So I figured I would post what I have so no one is waiting another two months for an update. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking by me, even though it's been like two months (oops)! We'll have an extra long update next time to make up for it.

Harding brings an arborist with her when she inspects the statue. He takes a five second look at the tree and summarily dismisses it as a standard oak, roughly fifty years old – an infant in comparison to the trees around them.

“We’ll get a team out here and haul that thing off ASAP.” Harding tells them. “That should clear away a lot the dirt once that root system is gone.”

“I intend to supervise,” say Solas. “The roots have cut into the stone in some places – it will take delicate work to extract it.”

Ellana rolls her eyes. “First it was some worthless piece rubble and now all of a sudden it’s precious cargo.”

He gives her a sideways glare. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“No.”

It takes Harding’s team about two days to tear the tree down. Solas insists that they leave the bits of roots entwined close to the stone for him extract personally. Even without the tree, the statue is still covered in mounds of dirt and grass and vines. Now an expert, Ellana splits her time between the wall with Cole and de-vining the statue.

Often she bumps elbows with Solas, because of course the second he found out about it, he had to muscle in on her discovery.

“Back off, Solas. He’s mine.” she had said when he first wandered over with his tools. “You said he was insignificant vegetation! I’m not letting you steal all the discovery from me.”

Solas levels her with an exasperated stare. “Trust me, there is plenty of work for the two of us. You will not want for discovery.”

“You wouldn’t even draw him in your picture. You don’t deserve to discover any part of him. You’re not worthy.”

His eyebrows raise up. “Oh? Are you Fen’Harel’s most trusted ally now?”

“Shh!” Ellana’s gaze darts meaningfully over to Merrill, who is thankfully talking to Bram. “We can’t call him that. He’s a _guard dog_ , okay?” She puts air quotes around guard dog.

“Judging from his size and the prominent position within the camp, I doubt very seriously that the Emerald Knights took the time to construct a statue of their pet.”

“Yeah, but Merrill can’t sleep at night if she thinks it’s the Dread Wolf, so it’s a sweet, protective, and pure guard dog. Got it?”

“Don’t tell me she still believes in that superstitious nonsense. She’s well educated – she should know better.”

Ellana glares at him. “Don’t you dare get on your high and mighty historical horse about it. It’s hard to let go of deeply ingrained cultural fears, okay?”

He puts his hands up in a sign of surrender. “I wouldn’t dare; I respect Merrill too much. I’m just surprised, that’s all. Now, if I promise to immortalize this . . . guard dog into a painting worthy of his glory, would you allow me to assist you in uncovering him?”

“Only if that’s a serious offer.”

“When am I not serious?” Solas looks at her with a wide-eyed sincerity that she doesn’t believe for a second.

“Then we’ll shake on it,” she says.

Solas holds out his hand and she shakes her head. “You have to spit or it’s not a real promise.”

He stares at her for a moment. “Is that a serious suggestion?”

Ellana’s solemn expression does not crack. “When am I not serious?”

She hasn’t done a spit swap since she was ten years old, but Ellana wants to see if he’d really do it. He seems willing to try anything to prove himself to her after those weeks of feuding, and she can’t help but test him.

Just when she thinks there’s no way prim and proper Solas would ever stoop to such barbaric, hillbilly behavior, he spits delicately into his hand and holds it out, his eyes a challenge.

Oh merciful Creators. Grinning wildly, Ellana spits in her own grimy hand and they exchange handshakes.

“We have a deal,” she says.

To his credit, Solas does not immediately douse his hand in rubbing alcohol. Instead, he just wipes his palm on his muddy jeans and begins working beside her.

They work in tandem in a companionable silence that Ellana never thought possible a couple of weeks ago.

“Have you let go of such fears?” he asks after a while. 

It takes Ellana a moment to recall their earlier conversation. “Of the Dread Wolf? I didn’t really have that one, to be honest.”

“Didn’t you grow up with your Keeper? It used to be part of their job to protect their clans from Fen’Harel.”

“I mean, everyone’s afraid of Fen’Harel when they’re little. But when my parents died, it was like . . . my worst fear already happened so what was Fen’Harel going to do? Besides, Falon’Din and his creepy-ass brother are way scarier than Fen’Harel. I actually started believing that the Dread Wolf was the only thing that could protect me from them, since he had no fear or respect for any of the Creators.”

“I suppose in a strange way, that makes logical sense,” he says.

“Actually, for about three or four years after my parents died, I had the same nightmare over and over again that Falon’Din stalked me, waiting to snatch me up because I was supposed to have been with my parents when they died and he was pissed that he didn’t get me.  Istie had a stuffed dog made for me, and I named him Fen’Harel.” She offers him a half-hearted smirk. “So in a way I guess you could say I’ve slept with the Dread Wolf.”

Solas swallows and fixes his gaze on the chisel in his hand. “So you grew up believing that Fen’Harel protected you.”

“I guess,” Ellana shrugs. “if only with the mentality that being friends with the worst monster means that all the other monsters don’t bother you.”

“You have a very unique perspective of Fen’Harel. I’ve never met someone who views him in such a way.”

Ellana fights the urge to roll her eyes. “Then you haven’t looked hard enough. Not many people are superstitious like Merrill anymore. Fen’Harel is mostly a joke now.”

For a long moment, Solas does not respond, focused on slowly prying away one of the stubborn roots from the rock. “You’re probably right,” he says after a while. “But I think you underestimate how rare of a person you are. There are few people like you, Ellana. At least, in my humble experience.”

She ducks her head down and hides a smile.

 

Even working together, it takes Solas and Ellana nearly three weeks to uncover the Fen’Harel statue. Not only is the statue well buried underneath layers of plants, dirt, and rocks, but the ongoing rain slows them down. The month of Solis in the Dales means a miserable pattern of humidity building into a sudden burst that drives them under the canopy until it subsides. Usually Solas and Bram and Merrill would review the day’s findings so far, or sketch, or write notes, but there is nothing for Ellana to do but watch the rain and wait.

It doesn’t take long before Ellana gets sick of that, so the next time she feels the patter of rain, she keeps scraping dirt off the front paws with her trowel and ignores the calls of her field mates. Even though the trees block most of the rain, she’s soaked in a matter of minutes, but it feels good after such a muggy morning.

Something is dropped on her head, her face suddenly shielded from the rain. Ellana cranes her head up to look past the rim of Cole’s ridiculous sun hat. Cole stands beside her, the rain soaking his bangs and making him look like an old sheepdog.

“You’re getting wet,” he says. “You could catch cold.”

Even though rain doesn’t actually make people sick, Ellana offers him a smile. “Thanks. But now you’re getting wet.”

He shrugs. “I like the rain. It’s soothing.”

After that, whenever the rain would start up, Cole wordlessly gives Ellana his hat. Sometimes he stays and helps, sometimes he naps under the canopy, lulled by the rhythm of the storm. Solas offers to bring his umbrella, but Ellana politely declines and Cole looks offended at the very idea.

 

Despite her best efforts, it’s difficult to work with the statue and not think of her own Fen’Harel. She hasn’t even looked at her email all summer, even though the cabin has internet. She doesn’t know what would be worse – a scathing reply or no reply at all? Either way, she can’t bear to look.

But ever since their night at the Astrarium, Solas’s words have rattled in her head. 

_I think you should let nothing cower you or your spirit, no matter who it is._

Well that’s easy for him to say – he’s not going to suffer any repercussions. Yet he had fiercely encouraged her to confront Fen’Harel with all the wrath within her, despite knowing how it feels to be on the receiving end of it.

If someone as level-headed as Solas thinks she should confront him, then Ellana can’t help but think it might not be such a stupid idea.

Except, by now she doesn’t know exactly what she would say to him. Is she still pissed that none of this was arranged with her permission? Oh yeah. But she can’t say she would still rather be lounging on the beach with Josephine, not anymore. How do you explain to someone that they still fucked up when everything worked out for the best? And does Ellana still have the right to be angry when she’s happier here than she would have been in Antiva?

It might help if she had a face she could speak to instead of the cold anonymity of words on a page, even if it was through Abelas. As it stands, she knows a grand total of three definitive facts about Fen’Harel:

  1. He identifies as male
  2. He’s rich as hell
  3. He’s college educated.



Everything else is up for debate; Abelas never confirmed that his client is even elvhen, despite using an elvish moniker.  Hell, Fen’Harel could be Abelas himself, a thought that has definitely crossed her mind more than once. What a plot twist that would be.

But even though they use similar vocabulary, there’s a distance to Abelas that does not match up with Fen’Harel’s warm responses.

“What do you think Fen’Harel looks like?” she blurts out.

“It’s hard to say,” Solas replies easily. “There are several effigies of him, but most of them show his wolf form. The few elvhen portraits show a bald man, despite his culture’s preference for long hair.”

“Not that Fen’Harel. My Fen’Harel. The crazy guy who runs my life.”

The chisel slips from his grip, scraping down the stone and making them both wince and the sound.

“Sorry,” he says. “Why are you asking?”

Ellana shrugs, keeping her focus on the section before her. “I don’t know. I keep thinking about what I might say to him when the summer is over, but it’s hard to imagine a conversation with a faceless . . . entity. Sometimes he doesn’t even feel like a person.”

“Hmm.” Solas remains quiet for a long moment. He probably thinks she’s weird as hell for even bringing this up. “I suppose some baseless speculation could be a fun thought experiment. Do you think he’s young or old?”

“Old,” Ellana says immediately.

Solas’s eyebrows rise. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“He’s definitely old. He’s got that classic old people attitude where he thinks all his experiences mean he knows better than everyone all the time and he’s never wrong.”

Solas chuckles. “Okay. So he’s old. Is he also short and bald?”

Ellana shakes her head. “No, he’s got too much confidence for that. He’s tall and he probably slicks his hair back like those old movie stars.”

“And how do you think Fen’Harel dresses?”

She looks over at his sweat stained t-shirt and jeans streaked with mud and waves her hand at them. “The opposite of that.” 

Solas rolls his eyes. “These are my field clothes, Ellana. They aren’t a part of my actual wardrobe. You don’t wear those clothes out in public, do you?”

Right now, Ellana is wearing the same worn flannel with the sleeves pushed up and tank top that she danced in the club with Zevran in. “No comment.”

“Are you serious?”

“ _Anyway_. Fen’Harel is disgustingly wealthy, so he can afford to dress classy. Slacks and sweaters and cardigans with the elbow patches. That kind of stuff.”

“He sounds like a fusty old professor.”

“He probably is one, since he values the college experience so damn much.”

“Hmmm. Tall, movie star hair, snappy dresser. He sounds like quite the distinguished gentleman. How long do you think he’s been married?”

“He’s not married.” Ellana doesn’t have to think about that one either.

“Really? Why not? He’s wealthy. Educated. Well-dressed. Generous at times.”

“I don’t know why. I just know that if he had someone, he wouldn’t be paying over sixty thousand sovs a year for a pen-pal.”

“You think he’s lonely.” Solas’s voice has gone pensive.

“Incredibly. You would too if you ever met his lawyer. If that were my only friend, I’d pick up strangers in a library too.”

She bites her lip, pausing in her work. Look past the money and education and the fancy vocabulary, and all she sees is someone desperate for a connection. It’s the only thing she can think of that would motivate such an insane commitment. Even pity will run out well before her four years are up.

But the more she thinks about how desperately lonely Fen’Harel must be, the more guilty she feels for not talking to him all summer, and the more pissed she gets because he doesn’t deserve her guilt. Not yet.

“For someone who has never met him, you seem to know him well,” Solas points out.

Ellana shakes her head. “Not really. I’ve just realized that the image I’m seeing in my head of him is suspiciously close to Istie’s favorite movie star from, like, forty years ago.”

“Ah.” Solas gives her a half smile. “Back to the drawing board then?”

“Yeah. Maybe he’s some sad, fat old dwarf with nothing better to do.”

“That’s not a very kind way to talk about Varric.”

 

Early into lunch everyone but Ellana and Solas sneak off into the forest. It takes a moment to notice, as Solas is showing Ellana a new sketch of the fort, this time with the wolf statue prominently displayed in the middle.  It’s not as detailed as his earlier drawing, but it’s still intriguing how he sketched one of the knights laying down an offering before the statue.

Ellana checks around for Merrill, wanting to ask a question about Fen’Harel, and notices that the rest of the camp is empty.

“Um. Solas? Where the hell did everyone go?”

He looks around the site, eyebrows furrowed. “I have no idea. Perhaps Harding went to show them some of the wildlife?”

“What the hell, I want to see wildlife! If they get to see that bear she’s been talking about, I’m going to be pissed.”

“I highly doubt she would exclude you on such an adventure. Perhaps she is showing Bram and Cole some of the dangerous plants to watch out for and Merrill is simply helping.”

“Maybe. At least this means we can talk about the Fen’Harel statue without having to whisper. I think I have a theory.”

“Oh?” His eyes light up. “And what may that be?”

“I mean, I don’t have anything to back it up, but I think because the Emerald Knights were technically rebelling against the Chantry, they might have wanted Fen’Harel’s blessing as a god of rebellion.”

“That would put them at odds with the accepted mythology of their culture. By the time the Emerald Knights formed, Fen’Harel was already villainized in Dalish religion. The Knights made offerings to Elgar’nan for vengeance instead.”

Though his words belie an argument, it almost sounds routine, like he has to say it for the sake of it.

“It might not have been all Emerald Knights. It might have just been this group. And maybe the asking for vengeance started happening after the Knights started getting their asses kicked, but they asked for rebellion first.”

“That idea has some merit. It would be hard to prove, however, without some kind of primary document.”

“Yeah, good luck. The Dalish didn’t write much down. But I figured when the Chantry started becoming a real threat, it would make some desperate enough to turn to Fen’Harel, even if they didn’t trust him.”

“It’s a good theory,” says Solas. “I’ve been harboring a similar one.”

“Yeah?” Ellana smiles. It’s nice to see them both on the same page for once.

Before he can get into any further details, their missing field mates show back up, laden with various . . . flower crowns?

“Happy Diala’blar!” Merrill says brightly. She takes ones of the crowns made daisies and drops it on Ellana’s head. “We don’t have any halla to decorate, but we do have one of Ghilan’nain’s chosen, so close enough.”

“Are you serious?” Ellana says, but a grin steals across her face as each one of her companions bestows flower crowns and bracelets and necklaces on her.

“Merrill told us all about this holiday,” Bram says. “It sounds absolutely charming. Too bad there’s no street to parade you down, eh, Ellana?”

“Like a true halla, I would dropkick anyone who tried.”

“You know, I think there’s some halla down at the animal rescue farm near my house,” says Harding. “We should totally go over there Saturday and beautify them!”

“If they’re wild halla, you won’t be able to get near them without getting your face smashed,” Ellana warns.

“I know there’s at least one who couldn’t return back to the wild and now she’s in the petting zoo part. She at least could use a makeover.”

Ellana wears two of the necklaces and three of the flower crowns until Solas had to chase off too many curious, wandering bees. But she carries them all lovingly to their cabin and hangs them around the bunk bed.

 

Patte de Chance Animal Rescue is an hour drive from the cabin. Everyone squeezes into Solas’s sedan, Bram taking up the front passenger seat and Merrill, Ellana, and Cole in the back. The trip to the rescue farm has a vaguely jaunty family vacation vibe. Bram sings show tunes and points out funny license plates and Solas makes sure that everyone goes to the bathroom at the rest stop and stops for snacks at a gas station.

Harding greets them at the gate when they arrive, having arrived shortly before they did. The elf who runs the place stands with a slight stoop, his hair white as the halla he keeps and thin on top. He greets Harding with a warm hug and firm handshakes for the rest of them.

“This is Tom,” Harding introduces. “He and I go way back.”

“She’s been volunteering since she was this big,” Tom adds, holding his hand just above his knees. His voice carries that light Orlesian accent Ellana heard so much in her apartment building she almost feels homesick for it. “I used to have to hold her up so she could brush the horses.”

“But I didn’t need a stool to milk the cow.” Harding’s cheek dimples with her smile. “Anyway, Gloria is in a paddock over here. She is ready for her makeover.”

“Been looking forward to it all week,” says Tom, limping alongside them. “I’ve seen a couple of Diala’blar celebrations – one of my aunts was Dalish – but I’ve never had the pleasure of participating.”

Gloria has three legs and one eye, her fur patchy with deep scarring on one side.

“I found her hit by a truck a few years ago,” Tom says. The moment he leans against the fence of the paddock, Gloria trots over, nuzzling his pocket in search of something. Tom fishes out a strawberry and feeds it to her. “She was barely out of fawnhood. I couldn’t save her leg or her eye, but the rest of her made it out alright.”

Dany would cry if she saw this.

“She’s beautiful,” Ellana says. “Do you have an electric razor?”

“Of course. It’s in a bag in the barn. Lacey told me a few days ago some of the things you would need. You can have your pick of flowers in the fields, as well. “

Out of the corner of her eye, Ellana can see Harding cringe at the name, ensuring that Ellana will never forget it until she dies.

Tom takes them on a tour of the farm before they get started. Several animals are permanent fixtures, including a hawk that flew up to Tom’s arm and gave Ellana a death glare. The barn is the last stop. The paddock behind it was surrounded by a high fence and the door locked with a steel bar and thick padlock. What the hell was in here, a wolf?

“This is where Maferath lives,” Tom says, fishing a key from his pocket. “He’s an escape artist, so we have to take several precautions.”

He opens the door and motions them inward. Immediately Cole gasps and Ellana takes a step back.

“What the hell is that?”

It looks like an unholy cross between a nug and a hippopotamus. Its hide looks almost black in the dim light, and giant horns curl upwards from behind its ears. It lumbers over to Tom, stomping its creepy hand-feet impatiently.

“You’ve never seen nuggalope before?” Tom asks, laughing.

“A what?”

“They’re endangered and very rare,” he explains. “They live in the mountains somewhere by the Free Marches. Maferath was illegally smuggled and stuck in some rich bastard’s chateau starving to death. The police raided it about ten years ago and had me nurse him back to health. They didn’t really know what to do with him – he couldn’t be rehabilitated and sent back to the wild – so they left him here and we’ve been stuck together ever since.”

Throughout this explanation, Maferath nudges Tom’s shoulder with increasing impatience until he nearly knocks Tom into the door behind them.

“Andraste’s garters, would you stop that!” Tom shoves Maferath’s head away. “He’s got his knickers in a twist because we missed our morning walk preparing for Gloria. I’ll have to take him out while you are gathering flowers or else he’ll escape again.”

“Again?” Solas asks.

“Oh yeah, that’s why I have the locks and the fences. Left alone and hungry so much at that bastard’s house, he’s learned to use his feet and mouth to break into or break out of just about anything. He’s a regular crook. If he gets tired of waiting for me, he’ll go out on his own.”

Maferath lows mournfully as they leave, despite Tom’s assurances that he’ll be back in just a moment.

 

The farm stretches out for acres beyond the paddocks, the rolling hills and thickets of trees looking like a painting from the Orlesian Romantic period. They spread out and search for wildflowers, long grasses, bendy sticks, or anything else that could be decorative. Ellana also picks some wild spindle weed from around the pond as a snack for Gloria.

Not long into their quest a dark blur shoots past Ellana, followed by Tom hollering a blue streak and throwing his hat on the ground.

“Get back here you son of a bitch!”

Maferath bounds through the field, clocking in at a speed rather impressive for such a rotund creature. Reveling in his freedom, he ignores all attempts to get his attention and makes a beeline towards the trees.

Tom takes off after him, but stops, winded, beside Ellana.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters. “He’s going towards Diana’s place. If she catches him eating her cabbages one more time, she’s likely to shoot him.”

“What!”

Tom waves a hand dismissively. “She’s only got a BB gun and his hide’s so thick, he’ll barely feel it, but I’ll have to listen to her carrying on for the next week.”

“How do we get him back?”

“Wait till he tires himself out, I suppose.”

“Do you have a horse or something?” Ellana asks. “I could take someone with me and ride out and find him before he gets to that farm.”

“Ginger’s old and she won’t run for nothing. But . . .” Tom looks her up and down. “You’re Dalish, so this might be a stupid question, but have you ever ridden a hart?”

A wide grin spreads slowly across Ellana’s face. “A few times.”

 

Ellana could have saddled a hart in her sleep she’d done it so often at Dany’s ranch. It takes her less time to ready George, a jumpy hart in one of the pastures, than it does to get back up to the barn.

Solas looks up at the hart and the impatient way he stamps his hoofs while Ellana buckles the straps with deep discomfort. Ellana hides a smirk as she tightens the strap. Creators know why, but she loves seeing him rattled; people with his level of self-importance need shaken up or they get utterly unbearable.

She climbs up into the saddle and looks down at Solas expectantly. George shakes his great, antlered head, impatient to get moving, and Solas takes a nervous step back. She can feel the tension underneath her legs, the deep need to run.

“Hop up, Solas. We don’t have all day.”

His jaw tightens for a moment and then he climbs up behind her, nearly falling on the other side. His hands grip her waist for a moment to regain his balance before he snatches them back.

“My apologies,” he murmurs.

“Have you ever ridden anything before?” she asks.

“One of my cousins used to show horses,” he replies, taking a step back as George shakes his great, antlered head. “I would take them for walks occasionally.”

“Well this isn’t going to be a breezy trot around the paddock, so you better hold on.”

Ellana taps her feet on George’s sides and he shoots out of the barn door like a bullet. Immediately Solas’s hands scramble around her waist, white knuckled, as he almost gets unseated with the force of their movement.

George heads straight towards the trees with almost no guidance at all, which tells Ellana that either he and Maferath are buddies, or George also has some jail break tendencies. He has one speed – breakneck -- but Ellana doesn’t mind. It’s been so long since she’s ridden a hart, and she’s forgotten how much she loves the exhilaration, the wind in her face, feeling tall and invincible.

Judging from the death grip he has around her waist, Solas does not share in her happiness. His chest presses right against her back, so close she can feel his deep, quick breaths, his forehead resting against her shoulder blade. It’s a little distracting, if she’s honest – he has never touched her outside of a brief helping hand, or when he cleaned the blood off her face.

In no time at all George skids to a halt deep in the woods, where Maferath lumbers around, ripping off huge boughs of rashvine and devouring them. George makes an immediate beeline towards Maferath and wastes no time joining his buddy for the feast. Ellana has a feeling that both of her assumptions are correct.

“This must be their stash,” she says. “I bet they break out and come here and just stuff themselves.”

Solas relaxes his grip a little, his breathing evening out.

“It’s a shame we can’t bring them to the site – they would clear those walls in a week flat.”

His voice reverberates right beside her ear, the closeness of it making her jolt internally.

“Then I’d be out of a job,” she says.

“Oh, don’t worry – there’s always digging and sorting and sketching and sifting and a hundred other tasks for you. I’ll keep your hands very busy.”

Ellana swallows, her mind taking his innocent comment and twisting it into something wildly inappropriate.

“So do you think you can handle good ol’ George here by yourself?” she asks.

“You’re not planning on riding the nuggalope alone, are you?”

“Of course I am. How else are we getting him back? That’s why I brought you along,”

“But he has no saddle.”

“He’s got big-ass horns and he loves to be ridden. I’ll be alright.”

Solas casts a doubtful look over at Maferath. As fun as it is to see him unsettled, it might have been a mistake to take him. Visions of George bolting through the trees and taking Solas’s head off a low hanging branch or jumping over a creek and dumping Solas into the water flash through her mind.

“You sure you’re going to be alright?” Ellana turns her head to look at him.

His rolls his eyes. “I’ve ridden animals before. They may not be this . . . boisterous, but it’s not going to kill me.”

“You just jinxed yourself.”

His lips quirk up. “You better get astride Maferath, before he takes off again.”

Even with her long legs it’s hard to sit comfortably on a mount as wide as Maferath. Now that he’s got his rider, Maferath is happy to wait patiently as she settles in, unbothered by her grip in his curled horns. Her legs look like a child’s as they dangle barely to the middle of his torso.

She keeps him at an easy, steady pace that George matches quite happily. Solas keeps a tight grip on the reigns, but otherwise seems fine. Though her legs ache with the stretch, riding a nuggalope is a smoother ride than she expected. It’s a shame they’re endangered – Dany and her grandmother would get a huge kick of riding one themselves.

It’s harder and harder to keep thoughts of her clan away, especially here. Each time her mind conjures them it’s like a stab to the gut, and yet she can’t stop it. It sucks, but she misses them. Even though they hate her guts, even though she’s so unbelievably pissed at them, even so -- she craves their presence. She had no idea how much space in her identity they took up until it became empty. And Creators know she loves her Skyhold family, but they do not fill the void left behind.

 

By the time the setting sun paints the land around in a warm glow, Gloria looks, well . . . glorious. Wildflowers and red-stemmed vines wrap around her horns, the mark of Ghilan’nain shaved into the sides of her lustrous hide. Wreaths of embrium and crystal grace are placed around her neck and over her head like a crown. Through it all Gloria stands or sits with infinite patience, helped along by the copious amounts of hay and spindleweed and sugar cubes that she devours from Cole’s hand.

They end up with an overabundance of pickings, so both George and Maferath are festooned with the leftover vines and flowers. Surprisingly, after their jaunt through the wilderness, they allow this decorating with quiet dignity.

“I don’t think Gloria has looked this good in her life.”  Tom says, as they snap photos of the finished result with their phones. “What comes after this?”

“We usually sing a song for Ghilan’nain and parade them down the street,” says Merrill. “People bring drums and bells and such and play music.”

“I don’t sing,” Ellana interjects before anyone gets any ideas.

“And then there’s a contest to see who has the most beautiful halla. Afterward there are food and craft vendors and live music.”

“Well, we’re a little short on vendors and live music,” says Harding, “but we could head back to your cabin and have a bonfire.”

Ellana immediately jumps on that idea, as does Merrill. Dalish and bonfires go together like whiskey and chaser and she misses them. They parade Gloria, George, and Maferath around the barn, posing them for photos, though this didn’t last long before the animals started eating each other’s decorations.

After they thanked Tom and said their goodbyes, Harding and Bram head into town for supplies while the rest of them head back for the cabin. Cole helps her look for firewood while Merrill and Solas clean out the fire pit.  

Despite the rain, the woods are full of decent firewood; Ellana and Cole can barely carry their gatherings to the freshly swept fire pit. It’s been a long time since Ellana had to build her own fire, and it takes a few tries, but eventually she gets it roaring right as Harding and Bram pull into the driveway.

In addition to sausages and marshmallows, Harding also brought hamburgers and fries from one of the fast food joints, so no one goes hungry.

“So I had a question about your statue,” Harding asks as they dig in. “If it could be the Dread Wolf, then why does he only have two eyes?”

“It’s because he’s a guard dog,” interjects Merrill.

Bram grins. “How many eyes do you expect a wolf to have, Harding?”

Harding shoves his shoulder. “Well according to legend, the Dread Wolf has six.”

“That legend is nothing but hysterical human nonsense,” says Solas, voice dripping with distain. “It has nothing to do with Dalish traditions or historical fact.”

“Actually, the southern Dalish elves helped that legend along quite a bit,” says Ellana.

Bram looks between the three of them, mystified. “Human nonsense? Are you saying humans have their own version of Fen’Harel?”

“In a way,” says Solas. “Rather, they stole the moniker of the Dread Wolf and fashioned their own doomsday legend from it.”

“ _Really_?” Bram’s eyes go wide in the firelight. “What does it do?”

“The whole thing is ridiculous, but supposedly many decades ago a few humans sighted a large wolf in the woods at night with six glowing eyes. A few days later, a fire broke out and burned most of the town to the ground, so everyone believed that the wolf sighting not only caused the fire, but that it was an omen from the Dalish themselves as part of their curse for the town being on Dalish property.”

Harding bursts out laughing. “Where on Thedas did you hear _that_ version?”

“It’s been several years since I heard it last, so some parts maybe inaccurate,” Solas admits.

“Some parts?” Ellana says. “Try, like, _all_ of it. First of all, the town was on the border of the Dales, so it had both Dalish elves, non-Dalish elves, and humans all living together—”

“Yeah, the ones who witnessed the first sighting of the Dread Wolf,” Harding interjects, “were actually a Dalish couple and their human friend.”

“And it didn’t cause a fire. The dam broke from a nearby lake _the next day_ and flooded the whole town. It killed like forty people. Only one of the Dalish witnesses survived, and he blamed the wolf that he saw and said it was the Dread Wolf.”

“After that there were multiple other sightings and they all happened within a few days of some minor disaster,” Harding says. “One of them _was_ a fire, but nothing was as bad as the flood.”

“So how does that differ from the Dalish version?” Bram asks.

“ _Historically speaking_ ,” says Solas, “Fen’Harel means “dread wolf” in Elvhen and it was a name given to him by his enemies. Though they said it in mockery, Fen’Harel embraced the moniker and used it for his rebellion, which eventually lead to the invasion of the Tevinter army and the destruction of Arlathan. The so-called Dread Wolf of recent legend is seen as a figure entirely separate from Fen’Harel.”

“It’s essentially a cryptid,” Ellana says. “I’ve heard all kinds of stories about it. Some people say he’s the evil familiar owned by Fen’Harel that sets curses on people, or that it’s a wolf mutated by radiation poisoning, or that he’s some kind of spirit that tries to warn people of impending disaster and he was sighted all over the place before Arlathan got invaded.”

“The Dread Wolf is big outside the Dales too,” adds Harding. “I’ve had to chase people from the park after dark trying to film sightings of him, and he’s the star of the Festival Unknown that gets put on every year about in Ponte Joli. People parade around in Dread Wolf masks and sell art and have creepy hayrides where people in costume jump out at you.”

“That is the silliest thing I have ever heard,” says Solas.

“It’s really fun, actually. I used to go every year when I was little.”

“I went once in high school,” Ellana says. “It is pretty fun. I still have my mask in a drawer somewhere.”

“My great-grandmother was haunted by Fen’Harel,” Merrill pipes up. She hugs her knees and stares into the fire. “There was an old statue of his outside of town – it was overgrown and neglected and she knocked it over with her car on accident. For weeks she had nightmares of a great wolf following her, and when she went outside she could feel something watching her, following her. The trees around her house started getting great long gouges in the trunks. Huge paw prints would show up at the edge of her porch. Finally she located the statue and set it back up and only then did everything stop.”

Silence reigns for a long moment after her story.  

“Okay, I have to admit that is some creepy shit,” Ellana says.

“My grandmother was chased by a monster,” says Bram brightly. “They call him the Greyman. It’s over seven feet tall with grey fur all over its body, and haunts the moorlands outside the city. My gran swore it chased her car one night when she was visiting her sister. Nearly scared the religion right out of her. We also have a man-eating horse that lives in the Minater River named Minnie. She crawls out of the river at night, and if you try to ride her she drags you into the depths and eats you alive.”

The conversation devolves after that into paranormal encounters and ghost stories. Starkhaven is full of ghost stories about people dying in moorlands or drowning in the river, and of course there are a thousand Dalish ghost stories about Emerald Knights and curses and warring clans.

“As enthusiastic as elvhen lore can be for the supernatural, I find dwarven legends to be the most unsettling,” says Solas.

“I don’t know about that,” says Harding. “I’ve been more freaked out by Dalish spirits out for revenge in these creepy woods than any story my grandmother told me.”

“The stories I know are quite old,” says Solas. “How about I tell you one and you tell me if you’ve heard of it before.”

“Alright. Let’s hear it.”

Solas takes a moment to compose himself before he starts.

“Once long ago a poor dwarven brick layer overhead a rich dwarf from a merchant class discuss an expedition into the deep roads. He begged to be allowed to go, for the artifacts found in ancient thaigs could provide an income that would last the rest of his life. The merchant, amused at the dwarf’s ambition, told the brick layer that he could join for fifty sovereigns, which would go towards expenses. The servant sold his most of his belongings to raise the money. When he delivered it to the merchant, he was told to raise another fifty sovereigns for unexpected expenses.

“After selling his house, the brick layer returned with the fifty sovereigns and was told again that he needed a final payment of fifty sovereigns or he could not go. The dwarf was destitute at the point and told the merchant he had nothing but the clothes on his back and his family’s priceless heirloom, an artifact of his Paragon and passed down for fifteen generations. The merchant told the dwarf he would take it as the final payment and the dwarf agreed, thinking he could possibly buy it back after the expedition.

“The expedition went on as planned. The brick layer discovered an ancient thaig and reported his excitedly findings to the merchant. However, after the doors were unsealed, the dwarves discovered nothing but time battered ruins within the thaig. Disgusted, the merchant left, but the brick layer stayed behind to get one last look of history when he happened to see something glitter in the rubble. He pulled from the ruins a gold and gem encrusted statue, no bigger than his hand, and showed it to the merchant. The merchant congratulated him, but that night the brick layer overheard the merchant’s plan to murder him and take the statue for himself.

“The brick layer made a plan of his own. The next morning, he led the merchant back to the ruins where he discovered the statue and convinced the merchant that he saw something else glittering in the dim lamplight. As a show of gratitude, the brick layer told the merchant that he would give the discovery to the him. The merchant eagerly entered the room, but could see nothing. The brick layer told the dwarf to keep looking further in the room, he was sure that he saw something valuable. Each time the merchant expressed doubt, the brick layer assured him.

“Finally the merchant gave up and returned to the entrance, only to see it walled up with rubble so tightly packed together that it would not budge. He yelled for help, and the brick layer, on the other side of the wall, replied that he could not because of the merchant’s plans to kill him. The merchant promised that no harm would come to the brick layer, but it was not enough. The brick layer requested that all his expenses be refunded and the merchant promised this to him but it was not enough. ‘I would do anything for you if you were to spare my life’ the merchant pleaded. ‘Then perish’ said the brick layer and walked away.

“Of course, several hundred years later Makareth was built up on the ruins and its citizens will tell you of a voice that can be heard on quiet nights of the merchant screaming and begging to the empty air.”

“I have to admit, I’ve never heard that one,” says Harding. “And I’m thankful for it.”

“It’s an Orzamarr tale, rarely spread outside the kingdom,” says Solas.

The thought of being sealed alive in a tiny room to suffocate in the dark makes Ellana shudder. But as creepy as the dwarf tale is, the most unsettling story comes from Cole.

“Once there was a little boy who could do strange things,” he begins, voice quiet. “He could summon birds with a song, command fire with a whisper, move stones with twirl of his finger. He never used these tricks for harm, but people feared him anyway. They locked him away at the top of a tower, with no light save for a sliver of the noonday sun.”

He tosses a stick in the fire. “Eventually they forgot about him and he died in the dark, in agony, begging for death. His spirit could not move on; it walks in the shadows, seeing the light but never finding it. Dark and desperate, he seeks those who cry for death and gives them mercy. Though they would catch a glimpse of him in the hallways, the living forget his presence as soon as they turn their heads. In the morning, they find nothing but a pale corpse in the cells and no trace of a killer.”

Ellana stares at him after he finishes. The crickets chirp around them, a constant cacophony. Suddenly she doesn’t want to be out here surrounded by the dark, open maw of the woods.

“It’s getting late,” she says, “and the fire is getting low. I’m turning in.”

“Me too,” says Merrill immediately. “Harding, are you okay heading home in the dark? We have a spare room.”

Remembering all the creepy stories of people getting chased by wild creatures in their cars, Ellana does not envy Harding the drive home.

“You know what, I think I’ll take that spare room,” Harding says.

Ellana douses the fire with sand once everyone heads to the porch and then ducks inside the house so she’s not the last one left outside. She and Merrill say reluctant goodnights while Bram gets Harding settled in the fourth bedroom that Cole never uses for some reason.

Usually the sound of the crickets and cicadas lulls Ellana to right to sleep. Sometimes when she closes her eyes and focuses on the noise, she can almost convince herself that she’s a teenager back at Istie’s house. But tonight, every creak, every snap of twig or wind rustling through the trees jerks her awake, thoughts of murdered elves and curses and escaped convicts and ghost lights fly through her mind.

Sleep is impossible.

“Merrill,” she whispers, leaning her head over the edge of the bunk bed. “Are you asleep?”

“No.” Merrill’s voice sounds huffy. “And I don’t think I will be anytime soon.”

“Can I . . .” Ellana hesitates. Merrill’s Dalish, so it’s not like this would be a weird request, but they also haven’t known each other very long. “Can I come down there with you? Just for a little bit?”

“Yes, please,” Merrill says, relieved. “I’m scared out of my wits!”

Ellana crawls out of her bunk and into the cocoon of blankets that Merrill has made for her and swiftly covers their heads. She hasn’t done something like this since she and Dany stayed up all night and watched old horror movies when they were thirteen, but she’s too freaked out to feel childish. Merrill’s warm presence beside her is comforting proof that she’s not alone in the dark, like that godsdamn creepy serial killer ghost Cole told them about.

“I am never telling ghost stories again,” Merrill whispers. “Every time the wind blows I think I hear the Dread Wolf howling.”

“I can’t get that story Cole told us out of my head,” says Ellana. “Fucking Creators, who’ve thought something like that would have come out of someone like him?”

They lay in silence for a moment, but the silence is full of creepy noises outside.

“This may sound silly, but I kind of want to sleep with the light on,” says Merrill. “It’s getting stuffy in here.”

“Me too. But who’s getting up to turn it on?”

“I’m against the wall, so it has to be you.”

“ _I’m_ not getting up, that’s for damn sure.”

“Maybe we can get up together?”

“To flip one light switch?”

Merrill giggles and presses her forehead against Ellana’s shoulder. “Listen to how pathetic we sound!”

“You know what I think? I think we should make a run for it and hang out in the living room with Cole. Maybe find some cartoons on TV.”

“Alright. On the count of three.”

“One.”

“Two.”

Neither of them say three. Instead Ellana shoots out from under the covers and heads for the door, Merrill close on their heels. She wrenches the door open so hard it nearly slams into the wall and the blessed light from the living room pours in. Cole jerks from his spot at the kitchen table, his yarn needles clacking together.

“Sorry,” she says, a little sheepishly. “We were just . . .”

“Bored,” Merrill supplies.

“Yup. Bored. Can’t sleep.”

Cole holds up his nug sweater. “Do you want to knit with me?”

They stay up till one in the morning knitting tiny blankets for rescued nugs. Apparently, Tom has sourced some work from Cole for his farm. Merrill can complete a passable row of stitches, but Ellana is a mess. But at least picking out her dropped stitches distracts her mind from other thoughts. By the time they head back to their room, Ellana and Merrill are too exhausted to care about the noises outside.

Even so, they sleep with the door cracked and crammed together in Merrill’s bunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I went to the mothman festival this year for the first time, despite being from West Virginia and living here full time for the last ten years, haha. It gave me the awesome thought of Fen'Harel getting his own kind of modern urban legend and festival. Even though I don't believe in mothman, the ride home in the dark definitely had me a little freaked, lol.
> 
> And if anyone is interested, I posted the first chapter of my Solas/Cadash fic that I've been working on off and on for the last year and a half. Any feedback would be awesome, because this is such a rare ship, lol. 
> 
>  
> 
> Diala'blar -- the holiday for Ghilan'nain where the hall are celebrated and adored.


End file.
